




Class _? S 0 5. v '• 

Book_.,.UL U_ 

Copyright N° \ 9 0 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
























































































































































































































































































































































































































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%a\>s of tbe Xafce 































































































































































LYING SILENT AND SERENE 




Lays of the Lake 


And Other Lyrics 


By 

EMMA SMULLER CARTER 



New York Chicago Toronto 

Fleming H. Revell Company 

London and Edinburgh 

Silla 








Copyright, 1910, by 
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 



Thanks are offered the Century Company, the 
“Christian Work,” the “ Independent,” the 
** Observer,” and the American Tract Society 
for their kind permission to reprint the lyrics 
published by them. 


New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue 
Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W. 
London: 21 Paternoster Square 
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street 


C Cl. A 2 7 8 8 7 9 



You have often asked me to gather into a little 
book some of the verses that have come to me from time to 
time, many of them written at your suggestion. I have 
tried to do it; but they seem for the most part so simple, 
springing up as they have done along the pathway of every¬ 
day life,—-just the common wayside flowers,—possibly few 
besides ourselves may care to look among the leaves for our 
vagrant blossoms ? However, here they are for you, dear, 
the daisies and the sweetbrier, the heal-all and the hearts¬ 
ease, the ragweed and the jewelweed, plucked along the 
way,—such a bunch as you and I have often carried home 
together. 


Lincoln University , Pa., 
September 30, igio. 


Tour E. 





. 

































































































































foreword 

They were wise , those ancients , who built their altars at 
the sources of their rivers , where the rill gurgled forth 
from the rock, like that slender , trickling stream of Cas- 
talia , that slips so silently through the crevices of the mys¬ 
terious mountain to its quiet pool below the Temple at 
Delphi. They recognized the source of things. For the 
same reason I send forth my little verses from the Lakeside 
where so many of them were written , to trickle, perhaps, a 
little way, and then to rest in some quiet pool of memory , 
reflecting still these shores to hearts that love them. 

EMMA SMULLER CARTER. 


Mohonk Lake, N. Y. 









































































































* 





Contents 


PAGE 


Laurel Time .... 




17 

Crown of Silver 




IQ 

Zaidee’s Bower 




20 

The Lost Song 




22 

Mohonk .... 




2A 

Fruition. 




25 

“ Easter Brings Thy Wedding-day ” 




26 

The Legend of the Labyrinth 




27 

“ Mons* Emile ” 




32 

Nemesis ..... 




37 

The Brownings in Florence 




38 

Both Wings, O Death 




4 2 

Pepita. 




43 

Madonna del Sacco . 




48 

In Umbria .... 




50 

To the Nightingale . 




S 2 

11 Riso. 




53 

Beatrice ..... 




54 

Elevazione al Cielo . 




55 

11 Gesu ..... 




56 

Baveno ..... 




59 

A Song of Greece . 




60 

Beside the Bosphorus 




62 

Dorcas ..... 




65 

Sealed ..... 




65 

Flowers of Esdraelon 




66 

The Blue Grotto in Miniature . 




68 

Minot Light .... 




69 

Where to Go .... 




70 

A Rhyme for Apple-blossom Time 




72 


9 










Contents 


PAGS 

The Flowers* Reveille . . . . .73 

The Sunny Side ...... 75 

The Water Sprite ...... 76 

** Whither, Love, Wander ? ” .... 78 

Dreams 80 

By and By . . . . . .81 

At the Crossing . . . . . .82 

Far Away ....... 83 

A Surprise ....... 84 

Autumn . . . . . . . .85 

The Age of Gold ...... 89 

Toil and Trust . . . . . . 91 

The Unwritten Gospel . . . . .92 

The Life-line . . . . . . .94 

Content ........ 96 

Twenty Years After . . . . .97 

The Bar Sinister . . . . . .98 

"Taps” ....... 99 

In Memory of My Persian Puss . . .100 

A Symphony . . . . . . .102 

Satisfied . . . . . . . .103 

The Songs of Home . . . . .104 

Revenge . . . . . . .105 

Thanksgiving Day, I . . . . .106 

Thanksgiving Day, II . . . .108 

" Bring Garlands ” . . . . . .109 

Stepping Stones . . . . . .109 

Brer Johnsing’s Suhmon . . . . .110 

Hans und Gretchen . . . . . .112 

** Beautiful Snow ” . . . . . .115 

Mrs. Van Dusen’s Vandu . . . .118 

Sabbath Stillness . . . . . .127 

" It is Finished ” . . . . . .128 

The Rifted Rock . . . . . .129 

Easter Dawn . . . . . . .130 

The Divine Tragedy . . . . . 131 


10 







“ To the Socket ” . 




Contents 

PAGE 

. in 

The Three Kings 





132 

The Angelus . 





i 33 

“ Out of the Depths ” 





*34 

Waiting .... 





J 35 

“ My Father Knows it All ” 





136 

Missionary Hymn . 





137 

Waters in the Wilderness . 





138 

A Dream 





140 

“ To the End ” 





14 1 

Faith .... 





142 

The Rock 





*44 

" Come, Rest a While ” . 





146 

Being and Doing 





*47 

The Sculptor . 





148 

The Potter 





*49 

Duties .... 





* 5 ° 

“ Art Thou Weary V 9 





* 5 * 

Heimweh 





152 

His Way 





J 53 

“ Prepare ye the Way of the Lord ” 




i 54 

“ Heart, do not Fear ” 





1 5 5 

A Prayer 





155 

My Dream 





156 

Haste .... 





156 

Mother’s Prayers 





158 

Immanuel 





1 59 

“ Christ, My King ” 





160 

Easter Hymn . 





161 

In the Shadow 





162 

Lines on “ Linnet’s ” Birthday 





164 

My Bethel 





166 

Afterglow 





168 

In the Silent City 





170 

Guidance 





172 

There and Here 





1 73 


II 








Contents 


PAGB 


“ Sleep, Little Mother ” . 





l 7 4 

A Greeting 





175 

Good Night . 





176 

A Forest Fire . 





179 

The A. B. C. of the Gods 





180 

Lady Jeanne de Beaufort . 





185 

The Silly Goose 





188 

The Bubblyjock 





192 

Forgetful Polly 





194 

The Lily-child 





197 

The Passing of Uncle Remus 





198 

The Princess’ Casket 





200 

The Silent Snow 



6 


202 

Bein’ Good 





204 

Gran’ma’s Flitters . 





206 

The Old Blue Tile . 





207 

The Schoolhouse Out of Door 





210 

A Song for Summer Time 





212 

Bylo Land 





213 

The Lesson of the Peach-tree 





214 

The Wonderful Mother 





216 

The Seven Trees 





218 

The Point of View . 





220 

Ten o’ the Cat-tails . 





221 

The Lily’s Lesson . 





222 

The Oriole’s Reply . 





223 

A Mother Song 





224 

Thanksgiving Day . 





225 

Christmas Carol 





226 

Christmas Carol 





227 

Morning Song 





228 

Evening Song . 





228 

Sister’s Lullaby 





229 

Little Temples 





230 

Children’s First Communion 





231 

The White Flower . 





232 


12 








Ifllustrattons 


“ Lying silent and serene ” . . . Frontispiece > 

" His sculptured face stares from the 

stone ” . . . . . Facing page 30 


Madonna del Sacco 

• 

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48 u 

“ Where rocky crevasses are 
and gray ” 

gloomy 

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cz 

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** The woodland ways ” . 

• 

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a 

85^ 

“ Standing tiptoe there, a tree 

99 

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129^ 

The Rock 

9 m 

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144 v- 

The Silly Goose 

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13 




i 









PART I 

of tbe Xafce 






LAUREL TIME 


f T is the prime of laurel time, 

And every hillside hollow 
And barren way is blooming gay 
With garlands of Apollo. 

The pearly bells, like fluted shells 
Flung up by fabled fountain, 
Against a screen of glossy green, 
Make Eden of our mountain. 

All white and rose the pathway glows, 
And every breeze is bringing 
A blush—but hush !—a hermit thrush 
Among the leaves is singing. 

So lone the spot, he heeds us not, 

Nor dreams of mortals near him; 
'Tis still,—so still,—then trill on trill. 
Ah! but 'tis Heaven to hear him. 

Were never heard from throat of bird 
Such mellow measures ringing, 

So strong and sure, so liquid pure, 

As if a soul were singing. 

17 


Zags ot tbe Zafte 


With swell and close the music flows 
In harmonies so haunting 

And themes untaught of human thought, 
Like nuns at evening chanting. 

A light wind blows, the boughs unclose,— 
Now look on him and love him. 

The leaves have made, with sun and shade, 
A shining crown above him. 

We greet him there, with foreheads bare, 
And fain his flight would follow,— 

Our little laureate of the air,— 

With garlands of Apollo. 


18 


Crown ot Silver 


CROWN OF SILVER 

ROWN of silver, tongue of gold, 
Mind of memories manifold, 

Like a parchment rare unrolled; 
Heart of tenderness untold, 

Wide and warm a world to enfold;— 
This, forsooth, is growing old. 
Holding all that life can hold, 

Joy, and love that grows not cold, 
Birthrights never to be sold; 
Treasure stores of ageless truth ; 

Yet 'tis age, we say, forsooth! 
Rather say: eternal youth. 


Xa^s of tbc Xafce 


ZAIDEE’S BOWER 


^^p^ALE of a magic mountain maid, 

| Told 'neath her roof-tree’s trembling 
shade; 

Aloft it hangs, a fluttering screen, 

And fleecy cloudlets float between. 


So this is where young Zaidee dwelt; 

By yon small altar stone she knelt; 

This is the chimney place where she 
Was wont to brew her cup of tea; 

That clump of fronded ferns is where 
She used to set her jardiniere; 

There is her little bedroom door, 

With leafy portiere hung before. 

In this huge armchair used to rest, 

At sunset time, sweet Zaidee’s guest, 

The big, brave giant, famed of old, 

Whose workshop you may still behold. 

Daily he came, at twilight hour, 

To woo the maiden in her bower, 

And watch where waves of sunset rolled, 

A sea of crimson and of gold. 

Sometimes these lovers chose to take 
A pleasant walk beside the lake; 

Sometimes they launched their birch-bark skiff, 
And sailed to where the beetling cliff 
And overhanging branches made 
A quite secluded twilight shade; 

20 



%Mee f e ffiower 


And there, in quiet conversation, 

Which hardly needs succinct narration, 
The hours flew by like birds of air, 

So light,so free from thought of care; 
While Zaidee touched her small guitar, 
And songs would float so free and far; 
Or strong the giant’s voice would ring, 
The while he twanged his banjo string, 
And rocks and hills would echo far, 

« M, O, H, O, N, K ! ’ra ! ’ra! " 

But that was years and years ago ; 

This couple, long, long since, you know, 
Have vanished from the mountainside,— 
The giant, and his bonny bride. 

But, that their memory might last, 

Before she went, kind Zaidee cast 
A magic spell about her bower, 

A spell of quite resistless power. 

Let no unwary maiden fancy 
She can resist such necromancy; 

But let all maidens listen well, 

For this was Zaidee's magic spell: 

That if, in any future hour, 

A man and maid should seek her bower, 
Some future giant, there to woo 
The lady of his love so true, 

That stout rock roof should never cover 
An unkind maid or luckless lover. 


21 


of tbe Xafte 

THE LOST SONG 

H T Ides of March our red bird came, 

A thrill of song, a flight of flame, 
Amid the thick-set firs that hide 
Our windows, on the northern side. 

No troubadour of old Madrid, 

Below his lady’s lattice hid, 

E’er poured a more ecstatic strain 
Upon the amorous airs of Spain, 

Than this gay grosbeck deigned to bring, 
To greet our tardy northern spring. 

So pure the notes, so bright the flame, 

We doubted much from whence they came 
We called our bird the thief of Heaven, 
And hoped that he might be forgiven. 

We knew his sombre little mate 
Within her thorny thicket sate, 
Somewhere a-near, but out of sight; 

And listened to her heart’s delight. 
Meantime, her lusty lord, alas ! 

Had spied his image in our glass. 

No young Adonis he, to fall 
Enraptured, under love’s sweet thrall; 
With rage he saw a rival near; 

Like dueling don or cavalier, 

He fought his foe of crimson stains, 

And beat his beak against our panes. 


Gbe TLoet Song 


Day after day his war he waged, 

Still growing daily more enraged; 

The singing ceased, the grove was mute, 
The “ little rift within the lute ” 

Was just a fantasy, a shade, 

To come and go, to flit and fade. 

Ah! but the world has lost its song, 

Has missed its music all along, 

From ceaseless strife in church and state, 
And love has sat disconsolate, 

For nothing more than this, alas ! 

A passing image in the glass. 

Oh, pitiful! the bickerings, 

The beating back with beak and wings, 
The phantom foes, the fancied wrong, 
And oh, the silence for the song! 


23 


Xa£0 of tbe Xafce 


MOHONK 



H, the dainty, dainty green 
Of the water’s wavy sheen,— 
Far away such lakes are seen. 


Sometimes they are floating high,— 
Thou may’st see one by and by, 

In the cloud-land of the sky; 


When the red sun sinks to rest, 
In the fair fields of the West, 
The Elysium of the blest. 


Sometimes they may lie below 
Alpine skies, where foam and flow 
Rivers from the ice and snow. 


Thou hast seen such lakes, I ween, 
Lying silent and serene, 

Where the Inn flows white between; 

Like a necklace down the vale, 

On a thread of silver frail, 

Gems of jade, so pure and pale; 

Where sweet Silvaplana lies, 

Lifted to the bending skies, 

Just outside of Paradise. 

24 


fl&obonft 


Where Sils Maria, on the green, 

Sits, a white-robed May-day queen, 
Jewel of the Engadine; 

Or where, cloud-like, lies revealed 
Broad del Garda’s burnished shield, 
Flashing on an azure field. 

Shining lakes, so far away, 

Shine for him who loves to stray, 
Leave me mine this summer day. 

Leave me lake, and rock-bound strand, 
And the wide, well-wooded land, 

And the warm touch of thy hand. 


FRUITION 

SPEAK the word, I sow the seed, 
To your good heart-soil it is brought; 
The blossom is a kindly thought, 

The fruit it bears, a loving deed. 


25 


%a£5 of tbe Xafte 


" EASTER BRINGS THY WEDDING-DAY” 


u 



HY do groves of orange grow, 
Bearing blossoms white as snow ? 


M 


“ All the groves that ever grew, 
Waited, Little One, for you, 


“ Bloomed for nothing else beside, 
But to deck my dainty bride.” 

“ Why do tall magnolia trees 
Fling their fragrance on the breeze; 


“ Shedding sweet and subtle balms 
In the shadows of the palms ? ” 

“ They are censers, swaying high, 
Sweet with incense from the sky, 

“ Dewy incense, downward shed, 
Dearest, on thy bended head.” 

“ Why do lilies, tall and straight, 

Hold their silver cups, and wait ? ” 

“ They are chalices, ye wist, 

For the Holy Eucharist. 

“ Bow beside them, Sweet, and pray; 
Easter brings thy Wedding-day.” 


26 


Gbe Xcgenb ot tbe Xab^rintb 


THE LEGEND OF THE LABYRINTH 

♦tfTT chanced, on a time, in the days of yore, 
II A century, mayhap, before 

The white man trod our Hudson’s shore; 

When the wild Algonquins ruled the land 
The Mincees here, at the nearer hand, 

And the Mohicans on the Eastern strand; 

There arose a chief on either side, 

Two mighty sachems, men of pride, 

Who each the other’s power defied. 

On the eastern bank, by the broad Ko-hoag, 
Of the fifth remove from the Wampanoag, 
Ruled the fierce and famous chief Qua Boag. 

He had miles of maize on the meadows low, 
He had fields where the golden squash would 
grow, 

Where the women wielded the moose-blade 
hoe. 

And year by year, on the tenth of May, 

“ The butternut leaves are large,” he would say, 
" As a squirrel’s ear; this is planting day.” 

He’d tobacco fields too noble and great 
For the labor of woman’s low estate, 

That the hands of braves must cultivate. 

27 


%ave ot tbe Xafee 

For these were but mortal men, in fine, 

Whose laws were custom, whose lords divine; 
Though their chiefs did follow the female line. 

But above all else Qua Boag possessed, 

A treasure far dearer than all the rest, 

The pride and hope of the bold chief’s breast, 

He’d a brave young son, such a dazzling youth, 
Such an aboriginal mirror of truth, 

He was—indescribable, in sooth. 

Now it chanced, as the world will sometimes 

go, 

That the Mincee chief, Qua Boag’s foe, 

Who was called Squak-heag, possessed also 

A wonderful child, with an eye of night, 

And a forehead fair as the morning light, 

And locks as straight as the arrow’s flight. 

She was lithe and light as the smoke-wreath’s 
curl, 

Her lips were coral, her teeth were pearl, 

And her name meant “ Hyacinth,” and “ sweet 
girl.” 

And oft, o’er the waters, went and came 
The young chief’s shallop ; it was a shame, 
And the girl, of course, was the most to blame. 
28 


fTbe Xegenb of tbe Xab^rtntb 


Well, the fathers, finally, found it out, 

And oh! how those parents stormed about, 
And the girl was imprisoned in stockades stout. 

But who could twist such a strong stockade, 
Or plant so lofty a pallisade, 

That love could not leap the barricade ? 

And so, it befell on a summer’s night, 

When the moon, in kindness, withheld her 
light, 

That the chieftains’ children took to flight. 

Softly they stole down the wigwam street, 
Trembling to tread with their moccasined feet, 
That fear made silent, and love made fleet. 

Lightly they flew, but the jealous ear 
Of the chief Squak-heag, keen with fear, 

Those flying footsteps needs must hear. 

In vain had the maiden waked and prayed, 
Called the birds, and the breeze, and dreams 
to her aid; 

By each mystic ritual betrayed, 

Now a desperate chase over paths untried, 
Upheld at her lover’s panting side, 

Where the depths of the forest shades might 
hide; 


29 


ot tbe Xafte 

By gloomy glades of the Shewangunk, 

By darksome dens where the brown bear slunk, 
Toward the rocky ridge of the Lake Mohonk. 

Along the ridge, with the speed of the wind, 
On and on, where the brier-vines bind, 

On, with a father’s wrath behind. 

Oh, he followed fast, till a beam of light 
Showed the lovers poised on the cliff’s sheer 
height, 

And they dropped, like a falling star, from 
sight. 

He pressed to the verge and the depths de¬ 
scried ; 

With a wail of wild remorse he cried ; 

Then silent, he stood there, petrified! 

And there, to the end of time, alone, 

His wrath relentless to atone, 

His sculptured face stares from the stone. 

But the lovers ? My maiden, dry that tear, 
There’s a happy ending still to hear, 

The best comes last, as it should, my dear. 

By a sudden turn, sweet Hyacinth 
Found her feet in the mountain's splintered 
plinth, 

And the twain were safe in the labyrinth. 

30 



“HIS SCULPTURED FACE STARES FROM THE STONE” 















Gbe Xegcnb of tbe Xabgrfntb 


Oh, the story were long, and long to tell, 

How they loved the cool lake-side so well, 
That they brought their people here to dwell. 

How, instead of wigwams,—just to think ! 
They built thatched bowers by the water’s 
brink, 

Where the pretty deer came down to drink. 

So, these Mohican-Mincees multiplied, 

And the straw-thatched homes where they 
lived and died, 

Still, vacant, are dotting the steep lake-side. 

And there, where the cliff-rocks bare and 
brown, 

Over the limpid waters frown, 

The profile of Squak-heag looks down, 

A warning, a lesson for fathers to learn, 

Who over their children’s welfare yearn, 

That they never should be too hard and stern. 

And still, as the autumn days roll round, 

The red man’s footsteps here resound, 
Tramping his ancient camping ground. 

And the red and the white man sit at ease, 
And talk while the camp-fire lights increase, 
As they smoke the Calumet of Peace. 


3i 


Xags ot tbe Xafce 


TRHan£»er Sottge 


/Ifc 


MONS’ EMILE ” 

ONS’ EMILE ! ” I could but love 
thee, 

With thy blue eyes’ sunny glance, 
Bright with welcome as above thee 
Beamed the summer sky of France; 
With thy snow-white locks descending, 
Spring still blooming on thy cheek, 

At the old loom ever bending, 

In thy broad, low-browed fabrique. 


High above, the forest stately, 

Where the kings rode long ago, 
Circled arms of strength sedately 
Round the beautiful Chateau. 
Through the silence, all the noises 
Of the military town, 

And the church-tower’s chiming voices 
Were forever drifting down. 

Voices calling to the altar 
Where thy footsteps, Mons' Emile, 
Evermore were wont to falter, 
Trembling half to turn and kneel. 

32 



TKIlanDcr Songs 


And the people, past thee straying, 
Looks of scorn or pity cast, 

Saying: “ Mons’ Emile is praying 
For the pardon of the past. 

“ For the heritage he squandered, 

With his wild and wilful ways, 
When from Holy Church he wandered, 
Years agone, in youthful days. 

While his brother, saints be praised, 

To the great Archbishop’s chair, 

By His Holiness was raised, 

Ah ! mon Dieu ! in Paris there." 

Whereat Mons’ Emile, uprising, 

Not a thought upon them cast, 

Not a glance for their despising, 

Only, peaceful, outward passed; 
Looking up so childlike-purely 
From those patient, pleading eyes, 
Saintliest of sinners, surely, 

Walking this side Paradise. 

Outward, through the forest tramping, 
Sped this gentle Mons’ Emile, 

Not where artists came for camping, 
Nor with tourists at his heel; 

But by paths unknown and hidden, 
That no other eye could see;— 
Then it was, dear friend, unbidden, 

I arose and followed thee. 

33 


ot tbe Hafte 

Oh, the hours we tramped together, 
Old companion, thou and I ! 

Through the fragrant purple heather, 
Or the fronded ferns, breast-high ; 

Over smooth and sunlit reaches, 

Where the trembling aspen made,— 

Or the slender silver beeches,— 
Tapestries of dappled shade. 

Dappled like the deer that bounded 
Through the copse, as we drew near; 

Mons’ Emile his soft call sounded, 
And they all forgot their fear. 

Every forest creature knew him, 

Even the very birds above 

Heard his whistle and came to him, 
Thrush and lark and timid dove. 

Wandering at times unwary, 

We drew near the rustic cell 

Where, for long, a solitary, 

Mons’ Emile was doomed to dwell; 

Meekly bearing all abasement, 

All that crushed and crucified, 

For his folly's full effacement, 

And the humbling of his pride. 

Passing thence, as if in dreaming, 
Down some gothic forest aisle, 

Where the level sunset, beaming, 
Seemed reflected in his smile, 

34 


TKHanDer Songe 

Calm he walked, with eyes uplifted 
To the veiled vault of blue, 

Where the arching branches, rifted, 

Let the light of glory through. 

Bathed in Heaven’s own baptism, 

Radiance seemed to wrap him round, 
Resting, like a holy chrism, 

On the forehead, silver-crowned. 

And I felt that revelation 

To my dust come all too near; 

From the strange transfiguration 
Oft I veiled mine eyes in fear. 

And I could but dimly ponder, 

When with “ Benedicite,” 

In the great cathedral yonder, 

Raised His Grace the fingers three, 

If, upon the jeweled mitre, 

Heaven a purer light would shed, 

Halo holier or brighter, 

Than on Mons’ Emile’s white head. 


Friend, farewell. The forest places 
Rustle to thy tread no more ; 

Naught is left but vacant spaces 
Where thy presence passed before. 

In this vast cathedral solemn, 

Home that knew and loved thee best, 
Many a lofty, leaf-crowned column 
Guards thy place of peaceful rest. 

35 



Xa£0 of tbe Xafce 


On the day they laid thee lowly, 

In thy sweet and dreamless bed, 

All the bells were tolling slowly 
For the great Archbishop, dead. 
Tolling, all the bells of Paris ; 

Solemn mass and mournful psalm, 
Requiems and misereres 

Rang through lofty Notre Dame. 

But the forest voices only 

Rang their notes of peace and love, 
Singing o’er the mound left lonely, 
Thrush and lark and timid dove; 
And the angels, as each brother 
Came, at Heaven’s door to kneel, 
Knew them not one from the other, 
Which His Grace, or Mons’ Emile. 

For the golden gate immortal, 

Which forever stands a-wide, 
Swings not more its pearly portal 
For the purple robe of pride. 

And they went, the Pontiff holy 
And the pardoned son of sin, 

Went together, bending lowly, 

And together entered in. 

Fontainebleau. 


36 


HClan&ei: Souqs 


NEMESIS 

'HOUGH pardoned our past wrongs, 
and hidden 

In fathomless depths evermore, 
Their memory rises unbidden, 

A rampart of rock on the shore. 


Z 


When waves beating high at Gibraltar 
Shall level it low with the sea, 

Then surges of sorrow may alter 
Past records for you and for me. 


37 


Xass ot tbe %ahe 


THE BROWNINGS IN FLORENCE 


M OW shall I say a word of them, 

Whose lives to one true rhythm rang, 
Clear as the bells that diadem 
Yon tower, with sturdy clash and clang, 
Struck through by on^sweet silver note, 
Throbbing, as from a thrush’s throat, 

But this :—they lived, and loved, and sang. 


Loved, as unlikeness only could, 

Loved each the other, constantly; 

To fatherhood and motherhood 
Brought of a love beyond degree; 

The world of matter and of mind 
Loved freely, loving all mankind,— 

And God, who hath made all men free. 


Sang out their lives, sang out their loves, 
For, deeper than philosophy, 

Stronger than any power that moves 
The poet’s pen, must ever be 
The deep, strong current of the life; 

So sang the man, so sang the wife,— 
Sang most their love for Italy. 

38 


MatiDcr Sonas 


Not Italy whose spell has cast 

Its magic thrall round you and me, 

Not for the glory of the past, 

But for the glory yet to be, 

They loved and sang ; and, as they wrought, 
Through Casa Guidi Windows caught 
Bright gleams of possibility. 

Saw, from the chambers of the night, 

A day new-born begin to glow; 

Fair radiance from the lurid light 
Of yonder altar, long ago.— 

You know the place, within the Square, 

And how it fell, that blood-red glare, 

On the Palazzo Vecchio. 

So grows the day, bright and more bright, 
The world’s one day that hastens on; 

The morning breaks with clearer light 
Than glorified the evening gone ; 

But those glad rays, those sunrise fires, 

Flame upward from earth’s funeral pyres, 

The martyrs usher in the dawn. 

The fountain flings its cooling spray 

Where fiercely flamed those fires of hate; 
And, here our poets walked, we’ll say, 

And heard the fray 'twixt church and state; 
Heard far the song of freedom swell, 

And Austria’s eagles scream: “ Farewell! ” 
And Garibaldi at the gate. 

39 


Xa£0 ot tbc Xake 


Ay, here they walked, this classic ground; 

And, hand in hand, like you and me, 
Climbed the fair hillsides olive-crowned, 
And looked along the vale to see 
The silver Arno winding through, 

And, rising white against the blue, 

The far walls of Fiesole. 

They walked, and with them once again 
Walked spirits of the long ago. 

Breathed by their side, like living men, 

Held converse with them, to and fro, 

Each face, each voice, they knew them well, 
Of Dante or of Raphael, 

Of Petrarch or of Angelo. 

And every canvas breathed anew, 

And perfect statue lived for them ; 

Each spire and dome their footsteps drew,— 
The great Duomo’s diadem, 

The slender, lightly-springing tower 
That bears aloft its budding flower, 

Fair as a lily on its stem ;— 

The quiet cloister and the church, 

The throbbing organ, and the long 
Dark chestnut shades, each leafy perch 
Trembling with cadence, soft or strong. 
Fair Florence, thine the subtle power, 

The beauty, fit for poet’s dower, 

City of sunshine and of song. 

40 


HKlanDer Some 


Florence, that thrills through all its air 
With fine suggestion, floating free, 

Like motes in sunbeams, everywhere, 

The warp and woof of poesy 
They wove in many a golden lay, 

Of “ Men and Women," “ Easter Day," 

And, over all, “ Aurora Leigh." 

Florence they loved, yet to the heart 
Of each, her sons were dearer far 
Than all her beauty, all her art, 

Her children, as they were and are, 

Victor and Nanni and Guido, 

And Luria and Pietro, 

Sweet Pippa and Pompilia. 

Dear, desperate, daring, dark-browed throng, 
Bronze brethren of the southern skies, 
Loved more, the more they suffered wrong; 

Those liquid voices, liquid eyes, 

Those cherub children of the street, 

Wild, wayward, but with faces sweet 
As ever looked from Paradise. 

I see them all;—and one sweet face, 

Frail, wan, but bright with strong desire, 
Bent o’er white fingers, as they trace,— 
Swift, lest the flickering lamp expire,— 

In Casa Guidi’s silent air, 

Within the rose-twined window there, 

Their message, with a pen of fire. 

4i 


ot tbe Xafce 


I see a strong man lowly bent 
Above that white face, all alone. 

The thin, thin “ veil ” at last is “ rent/* 

The cage set wide, the songster flown. 

A group of grass-grown graves I see, 

That look toward fair Fiesole, 

Where cypress shades are softly thrown. 

We read the poet’s name divine, 

Whose fame to such high splendor sprang, 
Where, in the Abbey’s sacred shrine 
His praise the vaulted arches rang; 

And think of her, the world-renowned, 

And say of them, the doubly-crowned, 

But this:—they lived, and loved, and sang. 


BOTH WINGS, O DEATH 


f F o’er us twain thou cast one shadow only, 
Waft, with one wing, from one, the part¬ 
ing breath, 

And still one heart; how lonely, ah ! how lonely 
That other heart!—Both wings, both wings, 
dear Death! 


42 


TKaanDer Souqs 


PEPITA 


*71 VfH scarlet kerchief for a hood, 
LMLIJl, Between the cornflowers and the 
vines, 

Like some tall poppy bloom she stood, 

And watched the trains along the lines; 

The trains that ran with snort and scream, 
And climbed with panting breath of steam 
Up through the rifted Apennines. 


And, slowly up or swiftly down, 

Pepita thought: " The day will come, 
When I, who never saw a town, 

Shall ride like that away to Rome; 
For I have prayed to journey there, 

To see the holy city fair, 

The city of St. Peter’s dome. 


“ And there I will kneel down and pray, 
For so one’s pleasure should begin ; 
Before one takes a holiday 

One should be shrived of every sin. 
And, surely, they who keep the gate, 
And see me, as I stand and wait, 

Will say : * Pepita, enter in.’ 

“ And I will walk, but quietly,— 

No one shall be so still as I,— 

To where one can look up and see 

That dome that rises high,—so high l — 

43 


of tbc Xafee 


Did not Luigi tell me so ? 

Davvero ! who but he should know ?— 
That dome that rises to the sky. 


" Then forth how gaily shall I go 

To see those founts,—for I am fain,— 
Bright as the rippling Rozzolo,— 

That rise in air and fall again, 

And make the golden sunlight glow 
Upon the carven stone below, 

And rainbows,—where there is no rain. 


“ And I shall see the towers tall, 

Shall see the yellow river flow, 

The great stone gateways and the wall, 
The people passing to and fro, 

And, (this I think shall like me best) 
The lovely ladies gaily drest, 

Who mince about the Pincio. 


“ And, this thing I shall surely do ; 

Where there are all things to bedeck, 
I’ll buy the brightest beads of blue,— 

A few soldi I should not reck,— 

For blue looks well with eyes of brown, 
And, ecco ! blue will match my gown ; 
They shall go twice about my neck. 
44 


ManDer Songs 


“ There will be music ringing loud,— 

For so it was Luigi said,— 

And, mingling with the merry crowd, 
Somewhere, with tawny palms outspread, 
A fortune-telling maid or man ; 

And they shall show me, if they can, 

If ’tis Luigi I’m to wed.” 


So dreams Pepita, eyes awide, 

Half hidden by her kerchief’s hem; 

The white kine feeding at her side 
Have eyes with such a look in them, 
Such wistful, wondering, sweet surprise,— 
I think it came into their eyes 

That Christmas morn at Bethlehem. 


Pepita, you shall have no need 
Of fortune-teller, never fear, 

For fortune comes as fate decreed, 

And while you dream a step draws near, 
A step you know and love full well, 

And love can best your fortune tell, 

Nor ask of soothsayer nor seer. 


No need of journeying have you, 

Your pretty bridal to bedeck, 

For love has brought the beads of blue, 
And, ere your timid hand could check, 
45 


Xags of tbe Xafce 


With words no other lips could speak, 

And kisses on your crimson cheek, 

Has twined them twice about your neck. 


Now, let the trains run fast or slow; 

The world that wanders up this way, 
When apple boughs are all a-blow, 

Shall see, upon a morn in May, 

A troop of merry-makers go, 

And one, white-veiled; and they shall know 
It is Pepita’s wedding-day. 


But, ah! that cot they shall not find, 

The rose of summer-time entwines, 
And sheltered from the wintry wind 
Beneath the broadly-branching pines. 
Such nests there are, such blessed nooks, 
For one who truly loves and looks, 
Among the rifted Apennines. 


And, oh, they bloom, the roses red, 

Bloom all the livelong summer through; 
They crown Pepita’s pretty head, 

And glow among the beads of blue; 
And gaily, gaily sing the birds, 

And all their songs are set to words : 

“ My Love so true, I love but you.” 

46 


uman&er Songs 


Sing, till the rippling Rozzolo 
Sinks mutely to its winter rest. 

Then the long silence and the snow, 

And in Pepita’s pretty nest, 

A tiny bird with folded wing, 

A bird that did not wait for spring, 

Lies slumbering upon her breast. 

She folds it there one little hour, 

Her sweet bambino,—only one;— 

Then, faintly, like a fading flower, 

The white hands loose, and lie undone.— 
Ah ! each some time his way must take, 
Though hearts may bleed, or hearts may 
break,— 

Pepita's journey has begun. 

Not dust to dust, but snow to snow, 

Her white soul shrived of every sin, 

Forth shall she sweetly, safely go, 

The Holy City fair to win; 

And, surely, they who keep the gates, 

And see her, as she stands and waits, 

Will say : “ Pepita, enter in." 

Florence. 


47 


Ha28 of the Hafte 


MADONNA DEL SACCO 


^ap^HIS way,—turn to the left,—when you 
have seen 

Nave, transepts, chapels, aisles, and all 
that lies between, 

Five centuries of fresco, storied stone, 

A treasure temple, with all richness overgrown, 
Richness the Medicis knew how to heap. 
Splendors of canvas and of carving where they 
sleep ! 

Mosaic miracles, most glorious sunset, these, 

—Always excepting Orvieto, please.— 

Richness of memories, tombs, whose carven faces 
Enshrine knights, nobles, senators, marcheses, 
Painters and sculptors, statesmen and their 
betters, 

Saints, Servite brothers, poets, men of letters. 


But haste ! the mass ! turn down this way. 

We’ve strolled here since the matin ; 
And now all Florence comes to pray, 
Tricked out in silk and satin. 


Out by this door, turn and look upward, so,— 
Yes, holy Fra, we see his crest, and know 
The “ great Falconieri’s ” tomb lies just below. 
(Why does he linger ? would we were alone !) 
Was ever face like that portrayed on stone ? 

The Mother’s face, flushed with the strife to 
make 


48 





MADONNA DEL SACCO 












































































































































































TKIlanDer Songs 


The Child a little quiet, for the father’s sake.— 

A time-worn task.—See with what tug and stride 
He tries, the sturdy Babe, to thrust her arm aside. 
The father reads, she listens with a look 
Divided. She has laid aside her little book. 

She listens, ever watching,—Heaven knows 
By what strange ways a mother’s spirit holier 
grows.— 

Watching, she hears the Word; working, she 
prays; 

Her life’s a vigil, long and loving, nights and 
days.— 

But see the picture; what consummate grace, 
What truth to life in every form and face, 

What color, too,—think when del Sarto died ! 
But then, they honored him; he’s buried there, 
inside. 

Ah! it had been more dutiful 
His weary heart to bury, 

Anear this vigil beautiful, 

Beside II Falconieri. 

Yet 'tis not what we see, what we forget 
It is that lures us in this loveliest lunette. 

Ay, though the voices at the holy mass 
This moment to our ears through open windows 
pass ; 

And yonder kneel her worshippers in prayer, 
Before the altar in the Virgin’s chapel there. 

49 


Xass of tbc Xafte 


Here, in the quiet cloister, while that face 
Looks down upon us, we behold her real grace; 
The human mother of the Son divine, 

The mother, just the mother, His, or yours, or 
mine. 

Santissima Annunciata , 

Florence. 


f 


IN UMBRIA 

ROM street to street, from town to town, 
Where I have wandered up and down, 
And turned in love to pass again 
Some Umbrian hill, some smiling plain, 
Some narrow way whose beetling roofs 
Have echoed to the beat of hoofs, 

When foes have bent the bow unseen 
In days of Guelph and Ghibelline, 

Where now the peaceful sunlight falls 
In broken shafts adown the walls;— 

As thus, I say, my steps have strayed, 

One quest mine eyes have ever made : 
Those silent doorways, walled with stone, 
Known by the bending arch alone, 

Closed to the sunlight long ago, 

On some forgotten day of woe, 

When underneath the shadowing arch 
Wound forth the mournful funeral march; 
And man or maiden, child or wife, 

Passed by that portal out from life. 

50 


'Cdan&et Sottga 


So long, so very long ago 
They laid those stones and left them so, 
Their mute appeal might almost seem 
The dim remembrance of a dream. 

So long ago, so far away, 

And yet they stir my heart to-day, 

With thoughts of joys I once have known, 
Of faces dear forever flown, 

Of open doorways, wide and bright, 

That erst were full of love and light, 

And led through vistas fair to see, 

Where all I loved might walk with me. 
They closed, those doorways, one by one,— 
So soon the dream of life is done,— 

Till almost now I walk alone, 

A narrow pathway, walled with stone: 

A narrow way, with sudden gleams 
Of smiling plains and winding streams, 
And hills of amber light that rise 
To opened gates of Paradise. 


51 


Xags ot tbe Xafte 


TO THE NIGHTINGALE 


NIGHTINGALE, of sweet and tender 
strain, 

Who taught thee, sweet, to sing so 
tenderly ? 

Who taught thee, when the April comes again, 
To come thyself unto the wood and me ? 


If love have been thy teacher, then teach me 
To love, O gentle minstrel of the wood, 

What love hath taught, oh, let me learn of thee, 
For thou hast understood, hast understood. 

From the Italian of Themistocles Gradi t 
Sienna , igtk Century . 


$2 


ManDec Songs 


IL RISO 


HEN light the breeze of morning 
^ passes 

Where, murmuring along its way, 
The brooklet wanders through the grasses, 
And flowers make the meadow gay, 

Then : “ The earth laughs," we say. 

When, by the shore some zephyr straying, 
Bathes its fair feet so daintily 
The dimpled waves scarce cease their playing 
To feel the touch so light and free, 

We say : “ The laughing sea!" 

When dawn, with lilies and with roses 
Strews the steep pathway of the day, 

And through a veil of gold discloses 
The sapphire wheels along their way, 

“ How laughs the sky ! " we say. 

’Tis true, my Love; earth laughs with pleasure, 
The smiling skies the hours beguile; 

'Tis true, but they can never measure, 

Nor know, by any winsome wile, 

Thy sweet and gracious smile. 


Gabriello Chiabrera , 
Savona , 1552-1638. 


53 


Xa^s of tbe Xake 


BEATRICE 


O kind, so true the glances she bestoweth, 
My lady, on the eyes so blest to meet 
her, 

Lips tremble back to silence that would greet 
her, 

And drooping eyelids guard her where she goeth. 

Passing, she hears her praise, yet round her 
floweth, 

Like to a vesture, humbleness the sweeter, 

Ever with pure benignity repleter, 

An earthly miracle that Heaven showeth. 

Showeth she sweetness, he who would admire, 

Feels his own soul, while he beholds, inherit; 

Sweetness no soul can know save by the 
proving. 

So seems there, from her sweet soul ever 
moving, 

And from her lips, a pure and loving spirit, 

Which to his spirit seems to say: Aspire. 


Dante, 

Florence , 1265-1321. 


54 


'Wnan&er Sonets 


ELEVAZIONE AL CIELO 


/lb 


In 


Y winged thought uplifted me to meet 
her. 

Whom here I vainly seek, I found 
above; 

yon third Heaven among the souls that 
love 

I saw her, yet more beautiful and sweeter. 

She held my hand: “ Amid this radiance splendid 
Thou too shalt walk with me; with me who 
brought 

Thy soul such conflict sore; and then out- 
wrought 

My little day, before the night descended. 

No mortal man may know my joy unceasing. 
For thee alone I wait, till earth surrender 
The veil I wore, that back to it was given.” 
Why did she cease, her gentle clasp releasing? 
Ah ! for the sound of words so pure and tender, 
A little more, I had remained in Heaven. 


Francesco Petrarca , 
Arezzo , 1304. 


55 


Xa^s ot tbe Xafce 


IL GESU 



HEY tell you a deal of tradition 
In those Roman churches, forsooth; 
And one will hold more superstition 
Than ten could contain, were it truth. 


Yet sometimes, to eyes that are able 
To locate a lone point of light, 

A ray pierces through the dim fable, 
As one star shines out on the night. 


The church, II Gesu, is accounted 
Among the rare churches of Rome, 
Though not for vast spaces, surmounted 
By nameless dimensions of dome; 

But rather for rich decoration, 

For marvelous marbles that seem, 

In opulent ornamentation, 

A sort of King Solomon’s dream. 

The eye with rare treasure is ravished, 
In clusterings brilliant, unique, 

With rich lapis lazuli lavished 

In masses, with pure verde antique. 

56 


TlXIlanDer Sousa 


With painters and sculptors immortal, 

You walk till the circuit is done ; 

And forth from the shadowy portal 
You pass to the breeze and the sun: 

For here, saith the legend, the breezes 
Do blow, and shall blow evermore; 

And, pausing, he hears, whoso pleases, 
This tale of traditional lore. 

The wind, moving everywhither, 

Paused here on a day, and behind, 

The spirit of evil came hither, 

Close pressing the steps of the wind. 

Close pressing, and passing before it,— 
The door of the temple stood wide. 

A shadow swept silently o'er it, 

Swept swiftly, and rested inside. 

So entered, alas! one that never 

Forthcoming, hath shadowed that door; 

And, patient abiding forever, 

The wind waiteth there evermore. 

A bit of tradition, a fiction,— 

And yet that soft wind far away 

I feel, like a sweet benediction, 

Still breathing upon me to-day; 

57 


Hags of tbe Xafce 

And out of the silence the Spirit 
That patiently waits evermore 
To enter each heart that will hear it, 
Says softly: “ I stand at the door. 

" Cast out from thy soul's inmost center 
Whatever of evil may be ; 

Behold, I am waiting to enter, 

To enter and tarry with thee." 

Rome. 


58 



Zander Songs 


BAVENO 

all the world is made of gems 
\w On such a day, I ween; 

The mountain tops are diadems, 
And fold on fold between 
Lie purple robes with ermine hems, 

All shot with silver sheen. 

And slopes of green grow dark or bright, 
By cloud or sun o’erlaid, 

With sudden gleams of golden light 
Or veins of velvet shade, 

Great mountain sides of malachite, 

Of jasper or of jade. 

The limpid lake lies broad before, 

In ever changeful hue, 

One orient gem from shore to shore, 
An emerald dropped in dew; 

But the sky, the sky is Heaven’s floor, 
Of clearest crystal blue, 

With snow-white robes soft trailing o’er, 
And the glory shining through. 


59 


Xags of tbc %ake 


A SONG OF GREECE 


^^HE hyacinths are at the door, 

True friends that ne’er forget us, 
Lest we forget that Spring once more 
Along Piraeus' purple shore, 

Looks down from Lycabettus, 

And honeyed winds are wafting o’er 
The heather of Hymettus. 


O lovely land, whose ruins stand 
Like time's untiring warders, 

On days like these, with every breeze 
Across our springtime borders, 

Our hearts fly eastward over seas, 

To templed heights and isles of ease, 
To revel there like laden bees, 

'Mid beautiful disorders. 


To dream a day by Daphne’s bay, 

On Delphi’s terraced mountain, 

Where kings their treasure trophies brought, 
And massive walls of marble wrought 
To keep the costly count in ; 

And pilgrims of Apollo sought 
The cool Castalian fountain. 

60 


'WIlanDcc Songs 


What shining showers drop down the hours 
From skies of cloudless splendor; 

On Argos’ plain that radiant rain 
Of golden light on golden grain 
Falls tremulous and tender, 

Or through a maze of mellow haze 
Dart down those piercing, pointed rays, 
Like Argive arrows slender. 

But fairer far, a thing alone, 

More lovely than Athena's throne 
By yonder mount of burning, 

Olympia lies in springtime guise, 
Flower-starred beneath the bending skies, 
Their look of love returning ; 

And Hermes standing pure, apart, 

Still answers, as to childhood’s heart, 

The world’s most human yearning. 

Olympia . 


Xags of tbe Xaftc 


BESIDE THE BOSPHORUS 


«*^HE Bosphorus before us flows, 
Cl. Down to the setting sun ; 

With glint of molten gold it glows, 
With sapphire waves, that change to rose 
Of rubies, as they run. 


Past stately palaces they pour, 

Those brilliant, burning gems, 

As though the Sultan’s treasure store 
Were slipping seaward from the shore, 
In shattered diadems. 


The round towers rise toward turquoise skies, 
And where the red sun sets, 

Stand clustered fair before our eyes, 

Like pinnacles of Paradise, 

The slender minarets. 


As stems of lilies, straight and tall, 

Their turret buds they bear, 

While faintly down the silence fall 
Those silver notes, the muezzin’s call:— 
“Ye faithful, come to prayer.” 

62 


ManOer Songs 


Athwart the fading distances 
Strikes low the level light, 

Where tombs, o’ertopped by flower or fez, 
Beneath the sombre cypresses, 

Give back a last good-night. 

It is a dream, a phantom stream, 

A fair mirage that floats 
’Twixt things that are and things that seem, 
Caught in the water’s circling gleam, 

And chained by shore-bound boats. 

And wouldst thou see this wonder work ? 

Forget the Moslem rule, 

Forget the terror of the Turk, 

And all the deeper shades that lurk 
Round beautiful Stamboul. 

Call not the Conqueror to mind, 

Nor Roumeli Hissar, 

See not Oblivion’s Tower, nor find 
The scimitar that hides behind 
The Crescent and the Star. 

Where yonder domes rise three times three, 
Above the Holy Place, 

Upheld by columns rare to see, 

Of verde antique and porphyry, 

And crowned by carven lace, 

63 


Xa^s of tbc Xafte 


Hear not the haunting midnight cry 
Across the twilight fall, 

Nor see, against the deep’ning sky, 

The cruel hand of crimson dye, 

That smote the marble wall. 

See but the magic ; 'tis for such 
As thou, if thou canst yet, 

While seeing, see not over-much,— 
Canst know, with not too near a touch, 
And canst forget,—forget! 

Constantinople , igo’j. 


64 


THHanDcc Souqs 


DORCAS 


H ER hands were folded on her breast; 
Laid by the loving task. 

It was the Master bade her rest, 

For rest she did not ask. 

And when the voice from Heaven sent 
Said : “ Tabitha, arise! ” 

Sweetly she rose, with calm content 
In those half-rested eyes; 

Then took the garments up once more, 
The task but just laid by, 

To live and labor as before, 

And then, once more, to die. 


Joppa. 


SEALED 


© UR sweetest thoughts are never 
spoken ; 

The wine is rare; 

’Tis meet, our care 
The seal should not be broken. 


65 


Xa^a of tbe Xake 


FLOWERS OF ESDRAELON 

t H, lovely plain of Esdraelon, 

J Soft with the latter showers, 

Toward Easter skies uplifting eyes 
Of resurrection flowers: 

Where gold of daisies and of dill 
All Ophir might outshine, 

And blood drops of Adonis fill 
The cups with rosy wine. 

Oh, there was flax like floating clouds 
When dawn is but begun, 

And hyssop in soft snowy shrouds 
That whitened in the sun. 

And azure eyes just peeping out, 

By grasses half concealed, 

And royal robes that wrapped about 
The lilies of the field. 

Troop after troop they thronged the plain* 
As here might once have come 

Some tempting eastern treasure train, 
That crossed to Greece or Rome,— 

Gold as the banners that have gleamed 
Oft in yon morning sun ; 

Red as the rivers that have streamed 
Before the day was done. 

66 


UdanDer Songs 

And birds sang blithe, with whirl and 
whirr, 

Where once was heard to sing 
The Prophetess, in praise of her 
Who dared to kill a king. 

Oh, there were other sights to see, 

And other sounds to hear, 

And messages from memory 
That whispered tales of fear. 

The bare-pruned vines, close to the clod, 
Seemed, where they lay around, 

To writhe, as Moses’ magic rod, 

Like serpents on the ground. 

And pale old olives, wrestling sore, 
Leaned low, on bended knee, 

As though they heard, forevermore, 

The prayer of agony. 

And every furrow was a scar 
Upon the fair fields, where 
The cruel husbandry of war 
Had run its rugged share. 

So much of ages dead and gone, 

And yet, for hours and hours, 

We rode the plain of Esdraelon, 

And only saw the flowers. 


67 


Xa£8 of tbc Xabe 


THE BLUE GROTTO IN MINIATURE 

f SAW a piece of azurite, 

Brought by some master-hand to light 
From the deep caverns of the night; 

A thing of beauty fair to see, 

That held the gaze, and seemed to be 
A miracle of mimicry; 

A rocky cavern, deep and wide, 

Covered and clothed on every side 
With varied lichens, richly dyed; 

A Grotto on a fairy shore 
With waves of azure for a floor 
And opal islands sprinkled o’er; 

With cool recesses dark and deep, 

And crevices where sunbeams creep 
And on the waters lie asleep. 

I gaze, and the cool airs that blow 
Across the Cheyenne peaks of snow 
To soft Italian zephyrs grow; 

And once again I seem to be 
Afloat upon a sapphire sea, 

And Capri's crown gleams over me. 


Manitou , Colorado. 


68 


U&anDet Soitfla 


MINOT LIGHT 

© UT, far out in the sullen surge, 

Out from the white sand’s utmost verge, 
Worn by the waves and lashed by the 
foam, 

Never a heart to call it home, 

Shunned by the ships that proudly passed, 
Left by the land, a lone outcast; 

Only a rock, a barren rock, 

Bearing the buffet and tempest shock, 
Looking forever away, away, 

Over the waste of waters gray, 

Over the shores of silver sheen, 

That gathered their beautiful skirts of green, 
And swept far in with a high disdain 
Of the hermit rock on the lonely main,— 
Fixed forever, and desolate, 

Standing alone, to wait, and wait; 

Yet holding fast to the world’s great heart, 
And waiting the hour to do its part. 


And, lo ! it came, the final hour; 

The rock was crowned with a noble tower, 
And far aloft flashed a radiant gem, 

The glory and grace of its diadem ; 

Flashed through the blackness of storm and 
night, 

A star in heaven, a guiding light; 

69 


%a £0 of tbc Xaftc 


And the proud ships hailed as they passed by, 
And the green shores greeted, reverently. 

Still stood the rock, as it stood to wait 
The coming of that hour ultimate ; 

Steady and strong it did its part, 

And kept its hold on the world’s great heart. 

Boston. 


WHERE TO GO 


F you would take a trip abroad, 
For one thing pray provide; 
Make all your little purchases 
While you are on Cheapside. 

To Paris go for parasols; 

When “ broke,” or stocks run low, 
Why, simply go to Dublin, 

As good stock brokers go. 

If you would flee from lunacy 
Go straightway to the Seine, 

But if you’d flee where are no fleas, 
By Arno don’t remain. 

If you’ve a leaning for old towers, 
Then Pisa is your city; 

But if you're needing sympathy 
Pray linger near the Pitti. 

70 


TKHan^ei: Songs 


Don’t go to Berne to try your hand 
At “ bakin’ ” or at “ brewin’,” 

And, of all places in the land, 

Oh, never go to Rouen. 

If you’re abroad Thanksgiving Day, 

To Turkey take your flight, 

But first run up to Hungary 
To get an appetite. 

When you grow tired of wandering, 
And long once more for home; 

It would not be the proper thing, 

Of course, to go to Rome ; 

But if, for sights both strange and new, 
Your soul should sighing be; 

There’s just one little thing to do;— 
You simply go to sea. 


71 


Xaies of tbc Xafte 


Spring Songs 


A RHYME FOR APPLE-BLOSSOM TIME 

B DAY like this, among the trees, 

All rosy snow and humming bees, 

A day in May, like this, I say, 

Is worth a “ cycle of Cathay." 

A “ Bough," whose apple-blossoms fall, 
And“ Thou," whose “ Verses " come at call, 

“ Enow," without a “ Jug" at all. 

Red tulips, where the light winds pass, 

Rise slenderly from out the grass, 

Like goblets of Bohemian glass,— 

Stems, swaying stately, straight and slim,— 
Cups, full of sunshine to the brim, 

Tilting, and touching rim to rim; 

And cherry branches, overhead, 

With every breeze their sweetness shed, 

And snowy covers lightly spread. 

And all afar, and all anear, 

Lies bathed in sunlight, crystal clear. 

There may be blossoms in Japan, 

And golden light in Turkistan ; 

French poppies red and cornflowers blue, 
And Holland have her tulips, too; 

72 



Spring Songs 


And English lanes, on either side 
As whitely sweet as any bride. 
But there is nothing, let me say, 
Wherever you or I may stray, 
That’s better than the U. S. A. 

In apple-blossom time, in May. 


THE FLOWERS’ REVEILLE 


m 


HEN little winds begin to sigh, 

At dawn o’ day in Spring, 

When in the leaves you hear on high 
The rustling of a wing, 

And odors faint come floating by 
That set you wondering, 

And rosy streaks shoot up the sky, 

And birds begin to sing; 

Then listen, bend and listen nigh, 

The flowers are wakening. 


“ Wake up ! wake up! ” they’re calling low, 
With voices fine and sweet, 

So fine, some ears would never know 
These children at our feet, 

These little friends, could prattle so, 

Like gossips in the street; 

And give their greetings to and fro, 
When in the morn they meet; 

And call their children up, to show 
Their frocks, all fresh and sweet. 

7 3 


Xa^s of tbc Xafte 


“ Wake up,” cries lady violet, 

“ My little piccanins. 

Wake, while the grass is cool and wet, 
Before the sun begins 
To dry the dew, and heat us through, 
And scorch our very skins ; 

Or there will be no drink for you, 

No foot-bath for the twins. 


“ Let every little darling mine 
Tell mother how she fares. 

Lift up your heads from off your beds 
And breathe the early airs; 

When each her scalloped silken gown 
And best blue bonnet wears, 

Then bend your faces sweetly down; 
And say your morning prayers.” 


The lilies of the valley wake 
With so much work to do. 

“ We’ve all our baby’s caps to make, 
And quill the borders true, 

And gore their gowns of green, and take 
Each one to bathe in dew ; 

And on their pretty faces shake 
Sweet baby-powder, too.” 

74 


Spring Songs 


The little Quaker ladies know 
The hour, as by a glass ; 

In sweet and modest groups they go, 
All trooping through the grass. 

They hear the chime of Easter time 
And to the church they pass; 

Yet who can know 'tis but to show 
Their new spring hats ? alas ! 

Oh, there are wondrous things, my dear, 
The early mornings bring; 

Then bend, and look and listen near, 

’Tis meant, each wondrous thing, 

For eyes that see and ears that hear, 

At dawn o’ day in Spring. 


/lb 


THE SUNNY SIDE 

Y neighbor dwells on the sunny side, 
While I bide in the shade. 

By the trellised spaces that divide, 
My pleasant vines are stayed. 

But they all grow sunward, every shoot, 
And the while I delve and dress the root, 
My neighbor gathers all the fruit. 


7 5 


Xa£8 of tbc Xafce 


Summer 2>a\> Souqs 


THE WATER-SPRITE 


c 


OME, sit with me beside the shore, 

The twilight hour has brought the 
breeze ; 

Yon bird has called you o’er and o’er, 

“ Come, Phoebe, Phoebe.” Hear, once more 
He calls you from the cedar trees. 


The new moon drops a slender lance 
Into the deep. On such a night, 

When broken star-rays gleam and glance, 
And weave a winding fairy dance, 

The water-spirit comes in sight. 

The wavelets ripple to the beach 

With curl and curve and silv’ry swirls ; 
See, where the filmy foam-flakes reach 
The outmost verge, there falls from each 
A slender string of shining pearls. 

How light they lie along the strand, 

Each one a necklace, purely white;— 

Ah ! but the breeze too rudely fanned;— 
You think it was a viewless hand 

That caught them back again from sight ? 

7 6 



Summer 5>a£ Songs 


The water-fairy’s hand, may be. 

Bend here above this quiet bight, 
And tell me, dearest, what you see. 
That face that looks up radiantly, 
Say, is it not the water-sprite ? 

The forehead fair with circling curls, 
The liquid eyes of laughing light, 
The smile, too sweet for mortal girl’s, 
And, ay, the very shining pearls, 

It is, forsooth, the water-sprite. 


77 


Hass of tbe Xafce 


« WHITHER, LOVE, WANDER? ” 


B 


ND whither, Love, wander, 
Away and away ? 

And wherefore, Love, ponder ? 
Where’er we may stray, 

Or hither or yonder 
’Tis only to say : 

" I love thee, I love thee, 

For aye and a day.” 


The wood-thrush calls clearly, 
“ Come, follow this way,” 
He woos thee more nearly, 
He lures thee to stay, 

He loves thee, but dearly, 
More dearly, I say, 

“ I love thee, I love thee, 

For aye and a day.” 

Where sweet meadow grasses 
With blossoms are gay, 
Where rocky crevasses 
Are gloomy and gray, 

The wind as he passes 
Moves softly, to say : 

“ I love thee, I love thee, 

For aye and a day.” 


78 



WHERE ROCKY CREVASSES ARE GLOOMY AND GRAY 







Summer S>a£ Songs 


Blow, wind, while all brightly 
Shines out the glad day, 
But where she walks nightly, 
My lady obey; 

Her hand beckons whitely, 
Droop low and delay ; 

I listen, blow lightly, 

I hear my Love say: 
u I love thee, I love thee, 

For aye and a day." 


79 


Xa^s of tbe Xafte 


DREAMS 


TO 


HAT art thou dreaming, little maid, 
This dreamy day of hush and 
heat ? 

Straying where’er the breeze has strayed, 
Sheltered beneath the aspen shade, 

The waters rippling at thy feet. 


Dreaming, mayhap, on that far shore 
Where young Proserpina at play, 

Danced with the waves the white sands o’er, 
Till love came flying fast, and bore 
The mirthful maiden far away. 


How Aphrodite on a day, 

From circling sea-foam rising fair, 
While love came drifting down that way, 
Shook, with white hands, the silver spray 
From glowing wreaths of golden hair. 


Oh, dream not distant dreams, sweet maid, 
Dream as a mortal maiden can, 

Who, in the drooping aspen shade, 
Awakes to tell, all unafraid, 

The love she bears to mortal man. 


80 


Summer Bag Songs 


BY AND BY 


treasures of coral and priceless pearl 
W\\/ Lie deep in the ocean caves, 

But dearer by far is the peerless girl 
Who sailed o’er the summer waves. 

She sailed away o’er the shining sea, 

But her last fond look came back to me. 


Away, away, down the beautiful Bay, 

And across the waters wide, 

But wherever she goes, my Darling knows 
I am ever at her side; 

And whatever fair her eyes may see, 

She would turn from all to look on me. 


So, with straining eye, and “ Good-bye, good 
bye,” 

I gaze o’er the white ship’s track; 

While a faint, far echo of “ bye ” and “ bye ” 
The breezes bring me back. 

Blow, breezes, blow! fly, white wings, fly ! 
Bring my beautiful Bride to me, by and by. 


81 


of tbe Xafce 


AT THE CROSSING 

H WAY to the church to be married, 

A phantom of white she whirled by. 
A crossing—one moment they tarried, 
I saw the sweet smile of her eye, 

I caught, from the roses she carried, 

A breath floating outward to die. 

A moment’s delay at her marriage, 

Lest I should be crushed by her carriage; 
Did she know, did she dream it was I ? 


Did those smiling eyes see the laggard, 

The being so abject and low, 

The creature who clumsily staggered, 

With footsteps uncertain and slow, 

With visage so hollow and haggard, 

’Twere wonder if any should know; 

Did those smiling eyes see, and seeing, 
Recoil from so wretched a being, 

Looking backward to one year ago ? 

Oh, innocent, pretty flirtation, 

Oh, eyes that knew sweetly to smile! 
And then ? but a quick separation, 

Some new human hearts to beguile, 

To drive down to dark desperation, 

With winsome and innocent wile. 

Twice, crossing my pathway, this woman 
Hath proved her both heartless and human, 
First crushing, then sparing a while. 

82 


Summer E>a£ Songs 


FAR AWAY 


M 


ER Love, her Love is far away, 

Her heart is lone and drear. 

From curtained casement, day by day, 
She looks along the thronged way • 

By which his steps drew near. 


He is not there, the crowd sweeps by, 
A tiresome, motley maze; 

Yet, day by day, the maiden’s eye 
One form in uniform doth spy, 

And mark, with lingering gaze. 


Frail, foolish heart! still will it beat, 

As yon brass-buttoned gray 
Comes marching blithely up the street; 
For why ? He brings a letter sweet 
From one so far away. 


83 


of tbe ILafte 


MooManb IRbumes 


A SURPRISE 


z 


HE lake lay low, and at its edge, 

A swarm of sunlit golden wings, 

That glanced and danced in fairy rings, 
And flashed in ceaseless flutterings, 
Poised lightly on the pointed sedge. 


Near, and more near, and still they stay. 
Were ever butterflies so bold ? 
Nearer and nearer, and behold! 

A swarm of orchids, green and gold, 
With wings that cannot fly away. 


84 















































































































































* 






































































































































THE WOODLAND WAYS 





TDmooDlanD 'Kb^mcs 


AUTUMN 


Z 


HESE the woodland ways we wandered, 
Summer’s royal ways; 

Wantonly their beauty squandered, 
Prodigals, that little pondered 
Autumn’s dreary days. 


Trees above us, swaying pliant, 
Realms the sunbeams ranged, 
Now, alas ! grown self-reliant, 
Standing silent, grim, defiant, 
Seem like friends estranged. 


Lately, every touch obeying, 

Winds that moved along, 

Lightly through the branches straying, 
Set them trembling, dancing, swaying, 
Full of life and song. 


Pipes of drowsy insects tuning, 
Lulled the songsters sweet, 

When aloft the breeze lay swooning 
Through the silent summer nooning, 
In the hush and heat. 

85 


XaE5 of tbe Xafce 

Kindly refuge from the weather 
Each broad, leafy dome; 
Tiny wings of gauze or feather, 
Safely folded, found together 
Shelter, house, and home. 


Now, inhospitable, dreary, 

Barren boughs they raise, 

Mute the music once so cheery, 

Wan they seem, and worn, and weary, 
Wrecks of better days;— 


Blackened boughs, that still remember 
How the frost-lit fires 
Burned and blazed through bright Sep¬ 
tember ;— 

Now the last, late, leafy ember 
Flickers and expires; 


And each tree-top, sadly sighing, 
With a sobbing sound, 

Grieves for leaves below it lying, 
Fallen, faded, slowly dying, 

On the sodden ground. 

86 


HXHooManD TRbEmes 


Yet, but hark! the song of sorrow 
For the dying year, 

Seems some blither strain to borrow, 
Some sweet promise of to-morrow 
Sounds a note of cheer. 


Squirrels down the windrows scurry, 
With a sudden haste, 

Set the fallen leaves a-flurry, 

Lest the last nuts, in their hurry, 
Should be left to waste. 


Winter wren and white-throat sparrow 
Hover near the nest 
In the crevice, warm and narrow, 
Where the sunbeam’s slender arrow 
Gilds each downy breast. 


What though winds that whistle shrilly, 
Mock the silent dells, 

Mock the meadow, drear and chilly, 
Where, of late, the lightsome lily 
Swung her golden bells ; 

8 7 


Xa^s of tbe Xafte 


Where the bloodroot flung its billow, 
Foam-like, o’er the sod, 

And each bright head found a pillow, 
From the days of pussy-willow 
To the goldenrod;— 

Though the flowers are dead,—yet tarry; 

Down the woodland ways 
Ghosts are flying, light and airy, 
Messages of hope to carry 
To the coming days. 

For the winds that shrilly whistle, 
Summer’s seedlets fling, 

Silky sail, or barb, or bristle, 

Tick-trefoil, or toilsome thistle, 

Sowing for the Spring. 

And at Michaelmas the daisies, 

Purpling slopes and dells, 

Lifted happy, hopeful faces, 

Where, white-robed, in sunlit spaces, 
Smiled the immortelles. 


88 


MooDlan& TRbgmes 


THE AGE OF GOLD 


% 


O ! 'tis once again returning, 

Radiant, as of old. 

Oaks with burnished gold are burning, 
All the elms are gold; 

And the molten sunlight, flowing 
Down the ambient air, 

Leans from Heaven to earth, a glowing, 
Glorious golden stair. 


Goldenrod her scepter raises, 
Gracious, as we pass ; 
Golden-hearted royal daisies 
Bloom for Michaelmas ; 

Golden evening primrose lingers 
Where the dawn will see, 
Wrought in frost by fairy fingers, 
Silver filagree. 


Here the honeysuckle, straying, 
With its wilful ways, 

With the wanton breeze is playing, 
All its laughing sprays 
Down the leafy lattice lying, 
Tossing flowered tips, 

Odours sweet and satisfying 
Breathe from golden lips. 

89 


Xags of tbc Xafte 


Golden apples drop beside us, 

Mellowed overmuch ; 

Not the metal hard of Midas 
Of the fatal touch, 

Not of gold to hurt and harden 
Human hearts, are these, 

Though they might outshine the garden 
Of Hesperides. 

Far afield, tall tents are showing 
Long and rustling lines; 

Golden spheres among them glowing 
From their faded vines ; 

Rifled tents, in order serried, 

Where the careless thief 
Leaves the golden wedge unburied 
By the empty sheaf. 

Bright, beyond the furrowed reaches, 

All the woodside glows, 

Save where solemn, somber beeches 
Darkly interpose; 

Grim reminders that the golden 
Glory soon shall cease, 

Vanish with the ages olden, 

And the Golden Fleece. 


90 


Coll and Crust 


TOIL AND TRUST 


m 


ITH tireless toil the tiny bee doth 


strive 

Within the narrow circle of her hive. 


The spoiler cometh when her work is o’er; 

One ruthless touch, and she hath lost her store. 
She knoweth not the praise her labor brings, 

Nor recks that honey may be food for kings. 

The patient silkworm spins, and spins alway, 
And hopes to wear her shining wings one day. 
'Tis but her winding-sheet, her little shroud, 

Its glossy sheen may make a princess proud, 

She knoweth not; she only knew she wrought. 
For her the life-long labor came to naught. 

Toil on, sweet soul; the higher hope hold fast; 
Trust on, there shall be sweet reward at last. 

Toil on, thy task is for the King of kings ; 

Trust on, for thou, one day, shalt wear thy 
wings. 

The web thou weavest in the dark, alone, 

Shall shine, like glittering gems, before His 
throne. 


9i 


Xags of tbc Xahe 


THE UNWRITTEN GOSPEL 


K AVE you read it ? ’Tis worth while to 
ponder upon, 

That unwritten Gospel;—from Matthew 
to John 

You never may find it; you bow o’er the 
pages, 

And, bowing, behold there the three years sub¬ 
lime, 

That tower o’er the levels, the summit of time,— 
The cross on that summit the crown of the 
ages. 


But silent, yet sounding to him who hath ears, 
There rings out the gospel of thirty long years, 
Rings bravely and boldly, with loud and clear 
clamor, 

Th’ evangel of labor our Master hath taught, 
The brain with its thought, and the strong hands 
that wrought 

With chisel and plane and the artisan’s 
hammer. 


A lifetime of toil, unrepaid, save the bread 
To meet the day’s need, and a working man’s 
bed; 

The sharp competition, the fraudulent neigh¬ 
bor, 


92 


Gbe TUnwtitten Gospel 


The shuffling, unscrupulous methods of men, 

We know them, my brother, our Lord knew 
them then, 

That rob honest men of the fruits of their 
labor. 

But labor? God willed it, not chance; and His 
plan 

Who hath “ worked hitherto," lifts the labor of 
man 

Up from the low levels, up to its true station 
Of honor immortal,—links matter with mind, 
Says : “ Thou who, of dust, art made king of thy 
kind, 

Rise, share with thy Maker the joy of creation. 

“ The field and the forest, the wealth of the hill, 
My lightnings above thee, I yield to thy will. 

Take freely, give freely; join hands with thy 
brother 

For greater endeavor ; and set on the whole 
My own signet-royal, the stamp of thy soul, 

For Me, and for thee, and each man for the 
other." 

So runs it, the gospel unwritten, yet clear 
To eyes that can see, and to ears that can hear; 

The gospel of labor, brave, patient, unshirking, 
The happy, the hopeful, the Heaven-sent creed, 
That bids a “ Godspeed " to the toiler of need, 

The brain that is busy, the hands that are 
working. 


93 


Xags ot tbe Xake 


THE LIFE-LINE 



HE fishing-boats, at break of day, 

Like white gulls skimmed across the 
bay; 


And with the setting of the sun 
They dropped to landward one by one. 


Then night and storm, on sea and town, 
An ill-matched pair, at once came down, 


And winds arose, with sounds of fear 
It made the heart stand still to hear. 


With howlings as from hollow caves 
Came the hoarse answer of the waves. 


Like foaming messengers of haste 
They sped across the stormy waste ; 

And panting on the sands they fell, 
Pale with the thing they had to tell. 

And was the message false or true ? 
Ah ! well the simple sea-folk knew ! 

Quick ! to the pierhead with a light, 
A ringing shout, to left, to right. 

Above the winds they hear a cry, 

A far, faint answering “ Ay, ay! ” 

94 


£be %ite*%inc 


There, where the billows boil and surge, 
Lashing with cruel stinging scourge, 

'Mid gathering gloom and awful strife, 

The boat, belated, fights for life. 

Now watch from shore with straining eyes, 
Now see her sink, now see her rise ; 

Now backward reel into the night, 

Now stagger forth again to sight. 

Haste ! sure of hand and keen of eye, 
Haste ! let the coiled life-line fly ! 

Outward it trembles on the air, 

A mute appeal, a hope, a prayer; 

And ere it sinks comes, quick and clear, 
The answering shout of hope and cheer. 

Oh, precious is that slender hold, 

As it had all been strands of gold! 

It bridges o’er the stormy strife, 

A blessed bridge from death to life. 

And blessings on his hand that cast, 

On his that caught and holds it fast! 

And blessed be the Hand divine 
That guided, straight and sure, the line! 


95 


Xa^s of tbe Xake 


CONTENT 


B 


ESIDE a bank, upon a morn in May, 

A fallen tree I found ; 

Its gnarled and withered boughs with age 
were gray, 

Uptorn and prostrate, as it fell it lay, 

One root alone still holding to the ground: 


And one lone bough, that bended like a bower, 
With leaf and blossom gay, 

From fair, soft clouds of rosy-tinted flower 
Sent down, with every breeze, a sudden shower 
Of fragrant beauty, on that morn in May: 


And there, in silence peaceful and profound, 

I could but pause to pray 
That though, through stress of storms that 
beat around, 

I, like the fallen tree one day be found; 
Content might strike its deep root in the 
ground, 

And life be lovely still with flowers of May. 


96 


Gwente Ueats after 


TWENTY YEARS AFTER 



O once again, old sun-dial, we are met, 
Like friends for long estranged; 

You, still the same, in your sweet garden 


set, 


’Mid bloom of myrtle, rose and mignonette; 
'Tis I alone am changed. 


You were so old when I was young. Your face 
Grown gray with all its years, 

Its centuries of change, looked from its place, 

A silent pathos, that retained the trace 
Of sunshine and of tears. 


Or so I dreamed, as, musing absently, 

Of all my happy past; 

I wondered what the days would seem to me, 
If all my hours, like yours, were doomed to be 
Marked by a shadow cast. 

The shadows fell, old friend, as shadows will, 

If it were but to prove, 

The sun is shining far above us still, 

Those spaces limitless to flood and fill 
With radiance of love. 

Lugano. 


97 


Xa vs of tbe Xake 


THE BAR SINISTER 

President McKinley 

f N the galaxy of Heaven a new star, 

On the roll-call of the martyrs a new 
name, 

On the Nation's broad escutcheon a new bar 
Cleaves the azure,—a bar sinister of shame. 

Shield, emblazoned with the sunshine of the free, 
Broad, to shelter every son of toil and need, 
There have crouched behind thine honest heraldry 
Aliens, bastards of a foul and faithless breed. 

Where the children gather free and unafraid, 
There the traitor, mad with malice, darkly 
cowers; 

There the craven whispers through his am¬ 
buscade : 

" Let us slay, and the inheritance is ours." 

Let thy bosses hurl them backward whence they 
came; 

With the strong right arm that broke our cap¬ 
tive’s chains, 

Guard us, shield of freedom, dark to-day with 
shame, 

Till a Nation’s tears have washed away thy 
stains. 

Buffalo % September 6, igoi. 


98 


" TAPS ” 



EST beneath thy banner, rest, 
Soldier of the free ; 

Stripes and stars upon thy breast, 
Both belong to thee. 


Thine the stripes of mortal pain, 
Borne as soldiers bear, 

Called in camp, on battle plain, 
Called to do and dare. 


Stars are thine; promotion high, 
Warrior, thou hast won, 

Stars above the star-lit sky, 

And the word : “ Well done." 


What though ruined lies thy tent 
On the camping ground, 

Angel sentries earthward sent, 
Guard their ceaseless round. 

Rest beneath thy banner, rest; 

Short shall be thy sleep; 

Stars and stripes above thy breast, 
Angel guards to keep. 

Soon shall come the call: “ Arise ! ” 
Soldier of the free ; 

Shouts of victory, through the skies 
Sound thy reveille. 

99 



of tbe Xafte 


IN MEMORY OF MY PERSIAN PUSS 

a DIEU, dear little friend, adieu, 

I hardly thought, ere you departed, 

To lose a little pet like you, 

Would leave me half so broken-hearted. 

But now, with many a blinding tear, 

Recurs the sudden recollection 
That you are gone forever, dear, 

With all your gentle, fond affection. 

I turn the page, and downward strays 
My open palm, until it misses 
Your silken softness from its place, 

Your kind caress, your ready kisses. 

The curtain rustles, and I speak 

Unconscious, the old word of chiding: 

“ No, Puss, no time for hide-and-seek." 

Ah ! ’tis not there my Puss is hiding. 

To play that gay old game once more, 
To-day the gravest task had waited; 

To see you scamper down the floor, 

And turn, and crouch, with eyes dilated; 

Then, with a clear bound, poise yourself 
Upon my shoulder, softly purring, 

Or, lightly leaping to the shelf, 

Its mazes tread with step unerring, 
ioo 


flBg iperslan ©use 


No brittle bit of bric-a-brac, 

(Here be the well-earned plaudit spoken,) 

Nor slender vase, that fluffy paw 
Has ever overturned or broken. 

Poor praise were this, sweet friend of mine, 
Who sometimes shamed my higher nature; 

Am I alone the spark divine ? 

Were you but clay, an earth-bound creature ? 

Ah ! whither went that light of mind, 

That made those eyes a full-orbed splendor ? 

That love for one of human kind, 

Gentle, forgiving, true and tender. 

If naught be lost in all the vast, 

If nature’s “ change ” be but “ gradation/* 

Has that bright spark of spirit passed 
To darkness and annihilation ? 

Bright leaves fall from the autumn trees, 

And, dying downward, pass to nourish 

New leaves, that in the soft spring breeze 
And summer sunshine yet shall flourish. 

And so I say: “ Adieu, adieu, 

Loved little friend, in silence sleeping; 

Spirit and flesh, both I and you, 

Both rest in one kind Father’s keeping.” 


IOI 


Zasa of tbe Zahe 


A SYMPHONY 

By Augusta Evelyn Smuller 


/lb 


ODERATO :—little one, 

Life for thee has just begun. 
Progress—knowing how to creep; 
Duty—how to eat and sleep. 

Cooing in soft undertone 
Echoes of some song unknown. 


Presto :—change ! a jaunty boy 
Marching by; eyes full of joy, 
Tumbled curls beneath his cap, 
School-books swinging in a strap; 
Whistling shrill a merry tune, 
Blithe as any bird in June. 


Then Allegro:—quickly ran 
Measured seasons, till the man 
Meets the swiftly circling years, 

Dares their toils and braves their fears; 
’Mid earth’s discords dauntlessly 
Moves to Heaven’s high harmony. 

Largo:—slowly once again, 

Time tells on the busy brain. 

Locks of silver lightly rest 

Where life’s thorn-crown lately pressed; 

And a weary watcher waits, 

Gazing towards the sunset gates. 

102 


3atl0tiet> 


Now Finale:—glories rare, 

Sounds ecstatic fill the air. 

Just beyond the sunset bars 
Angels wait with crown of stars, 
Take up earth’s expiring strain 
In a gladsome, sweet refrain; 
Strains for earth too glad and sweet 
Make life’s symphony complete. 


SATISFIED 


B TINY struggling streamlet said 

To the deep-welling fountain-head: 
“ Give, give me more of thee.” 

“ Flow on, flow on,” the fount replied, 

“ Thy longing shall be satisfied 
When thou hast reached the sea.” 


103 


lags of tbe Uafce 


THE SONGS OF HOME 


XL 


HE world is full of wondrous song. 
We pause to hearken, and we hear 
Forever sounding, far or near, 
Those sweet vibrations, faint or strong. 
Yet sweeter sound, and far more dear 
Than to the outward sense can come, 
Is memory’s music, soft and clear, 

That rings upon the inward ear, 

The loved, old songs of home. 


We catch the music of the May, 

The tender voice of bird or breeze, 
That trembles tuneful through the trees, 
And rising, falling, far away, 

The mingled murmur of the seas. 

Yet sweeter, dearer far than these, 
Though sirens sang across the foam, 
Are echoed through life’s silences, 

The loved, old songs of home. 

The old, old tunes, the sweet old words 
That lips grown silent loved to sing, 
How close around the heart they cling, 
Smiting its truest, tenderest chords. 

Let all the world with music ring, 
Where’er we rest, where’er we roam; 
Not one can touch so sweet a string 
Or to the heart such rapture bring 
As those loved songs of home. 

104 


‘Kcvenae 


REVENGE 


H N Eastern monarch had a favourite 
haughty, 

Who, one day, seeing a poor priest pass 

by, 

Picked up a stone; and, feeling proud and 
naughty, 

Full at the dervish let the missile fly. 

Smarting and sore, the priest reflected whether 
He safely might repay the rude attack. 

Then, stone and insult pocketing together, 

Quoth he: “ The time will come to throw 
them back.” 


Not long thereafter, walking through the city, 
He met the favourite, fallen to disgrace, 

Paraded through the streets, a thing to pity, 

Butt of the jesting, jeering populace. 

The dervish seized the stone, but did not throw 
it; 

“ There is no time for vengeance,” quoth he, 
with a smile; 

“ For when your foe is strong, you dare not 
show it, 

When he is weak, it is not worth your while.” 


105 


lags of tbe lake 


THANKSGIVING DAY. I 


xr 


HUS comes the day of memories sweet, 
Laying its trophies at our feet: 

A year of bountiful increase, 

Rich fields of harvest reaped in peace, 
Fair fruits from branches bending low, 
Fresh winds from east and west that blow 
With breath of health, a sky all clear, 
Undimmed by one dark cloud of fear, 
That arches o’er from sea to sea 
A land of peace and unity. 


Not so the first Thanksgiving came 
To those of brave and blessed name, 

Who patient toiled to sow at length 
The seed-corn of a nation’s strength. 

Death wrought with them their harvest field, 
And bore away the larger yield ; 

Yet calmly on that friendless strand 
With hymns of praise we see them stand, 
Singing, in bitter banishment, 

With scant supply but full content, 

In meek, heroic attitude, 

“We owe the Giver gratitude." 

106 


Gbanfisatvlnfl 2>a£ 


We, standing 'mid the ripened ears. 
The golden harvest of the years, 

As summers fade and autumns glow, 
Before the falling of the snow, 

As garners fill and labors cease, 

And plenitude—and pride—increase, 
Repeat the easy platitude, 

“ We owe the Giver gratitude.” 


But what of struggle or of trial, 

Of hardship borne or self-denial 
For purer life in church and state, 

For all that made the fathers great ? 
While we give thanks, thus let us pray: 
For leaders brave and true as they, 

For reign of perfect liberty 
Wherewith the truth shall make us free; 
For honest aims, for simpler life. 

For less of greed and less of strife, 

For godly gain that gives content, 

For larger vision clearly bent 
Along the future, till we see 
The world new-born that is to be, 

And what the part ’tis ours to play 
Till dawns that glad Thanksgiving Day. 


Xass of tbe Xafce 


THANKSGIVING DAY. II 


V'fTl ^ badw * tb j°y tbe buddin s s p r ^ n ^» 

IjjLJI And summer’s perfect prime we 
praise; 

Yet fonder are the hearts that cling 
Around these dear, departing days, 

When, full of wealth, the year is growing old, 
Crowned at the close with all its garnered gold. 


Oh, welcome time of work well done! 

Rich trophies of the sun and soil 
On every field are fairly won, 

And now, at last, a truce to toil! 

Our joyful Day of Jubilee is come, 

With harvest and with household gathered 
home. 


From South and North, from West and East, 
The faces absence makes more dear, 

Are homeward turned to crown the feast, 

The feast of love that crowns the year. 

A goodly time, albeit all too brief, 

When fond affection binds its scattered sheaf. 

Oh, day made dear by countless ties, 

Since first the fathers bravely stood, 

And bared their foreheads to the skies, 

Amid the wintry solitude; 

Our hearts have held the feast, and still will 
hold, 

Till autumns cease to crown the year with gold. 
108 


“ JBrina (SarlanDs ” 


“ BRING GARLANDS ” 

To Rudyard Kipling, during his illness in New York City. 


3 


RING garlands, though 
The head lie low, 
And pray it be uplifted 
To wear the bays 
Of honest praise, 

For labor good and gifted. 


No other fame 
Is worth the name, 

’Tis merit's just requiting; 
Though Austin weaves 
The laurel leaves, 

Our Rudyard does the writing. 


XU 


STEPPING STONES 

PON the level of the past 
I builded; but in vain; 

My building came to naught. 
Then, of its fragments I made steps, 
to gain 

A broader view; and thus, at last, 
Upon the higher plane 

My work was wrought. 

109 


Xa^s of tbe Xafte 


Kialect 1Rb?mc0 


BRER JOHNSING’S SUHMON 


© 


EAR Bredren, I’se a-gwine to preach 
A suhmon outen han’, 

So plain, de pickaninnies 
An’ dey Mahs kin onde’stan’. 

I don’ tek no p’tick’ler tex’ 

Fur my discose to-day, 

But w’at you’s got to larn is dis: 

We’s all made outen clay. 


Dey ain’t no use er talkin’ 

Dis “ highah life ” to me, 

Hit's all des trash an’ nonsense, 

Ez triflin’ ez kin be. 

Yo, in de amen cohndah dah, 

Yo yeah des w’at I say; 

De saints an' sinnahs, black an’ w’ite, 
Is all made outen clay. 


Now dah wuz ole man Jonah, 
De prophet ob de Lawd, 

He shuhked de job fur nothin’ 
But de with’in ob a goh’d; 
no 



Dialect TRb^mee 


A or’nery, no count, stragglin’ vine! 

But Jonah hed to pay, 

An’ tek a sho-nuff whalin’, 

Kase he’s made outen clay. 

An’ dah wuz prophet ’Lijah ; 

He got so skeah’d, he tried 
To hide hisse’f;—but, honey, 

De Lawd won’t let yo hide. 

He scented out dat prophet, 

An’ fus’ news, dah he heah 
A voice done hollah, “ ’Lijah ! 

Say, w’at yo doin’ yeah ? ” 

Yas, suh, dat po’ man ’Lijah, 

Wuz des de ve’y same 
Dey done kotch up to Hebben 
In a cha’iot ob flame; 

But he done hed his trials, 

An’ mis’ries in his day. 

He was de bes’, but, lak de res’, 

He’s des made outen clay. 

Yo all sho membahs Moses, 

Dat s’vig’rous man ob God ; 

An’ how he fotch ole Pha'ro 
Wid his wondah-wukkin rod; 

But w’en he los’ his tempah, 

An’ hit de rock dat day; 

He drap his money-pus, an’ showed 
Dat he’s made outen clay. 
hi 


%a es of tbe Xahe 


Den David,—but, Lawd he'p us ! 

Anointed he mought be, 

De clay wuz des ez thick on him 
Ez ’tis on you an’ me. 

'Tain’t no use length’nin’ my discose; 

Let Brudder Rastus pray ; 

An’ don’t yo’ fuse to ’spon’ amen, 
Kase lies made outen clay. 


HANS UND GRETCHEN 



AM fery mad mit Hans, 
Vy he goes in oder lands ; 


Vay off on de sea so far, 
In dat old America! 


Ven I knew't would make him go, 
V’ile ve study Inglis so, 

I vould not coom in de school; 

I vould radder be a fool! 

Now he’s dere, he write for say 
Dat he mak his mind to stay; 

112 


EMalect TRbgmea 


Dat he vants I coom dere, too. 

Dat ting I vill neffer do! 

Sends de billet, dat vill pay 
For mine passage, all de vay. 

Cross de ocean ? Dunner blitz! 
Does he tink I lost my vits ? 

Dere is plenty boys yet here; 

I take somebody more near; 

Yahcobe, Hermon, oder Chon, 
Dey vould bleze me, eder von. 

Blenty nice young Chermon mons, 
Shoost as goot und smart as Hans. 

Now he sends von letter yet, 

I von’t open it, you bet! 

Shoost to read how fast he make 
Money for his Cretchen’s sake ! 

Vat de use of money dah, 

Vay off in America ? 

I say, let der azel coom, 

Ve can spend it fas' at home. 

But I vill dat letter see,— 

'Tis de las’ vill coom to me. 

113 


Xa^0 of tbc Xafte 

I can shoost read vat he say, 

Den I tro it guick away. 

Oh! mine cracious ! Hans is sick! 
Don’t I vish I bin dere, guick ? 

Vorked so hard, de plessed poy ! 
Shoost to gif his Cretchen choy! 

Leedle house, all feexed oop nice, 
Now he lies down dere an’ dies. 

Cracious me ! vat dis he write ? 
Fraiilein Yerks cooms, makes a light, 

Cooks his dinner,—veil, I say ! 

I starts off dis fery day. 

Nefer vas no poy like Hans! 

Vat vas Hermons, Yahcobes, Chons ? 

Now I coom ! yah, Hanschen, yah, 
Coom dah in America ! 


Dialect IRbEmes 


“ BEAUTIFUL SNOW " 

left for the office at 8 : 24, 

I sipped at my coffee for ten minutes 
more; 

'Twas perfect—the room was so pleasant, be¬ 
side, 

Though 'tis the front basement, which Tom can’t 
abide. 

The snow fell without in a soft, gentle way, 

That made one feel—well, I’m sure I can’t say 
Just how I did feel; I decided, I know, 

To write my first poem, on—“ Beautiful Snow." 
The Muses had never smiled on me before, 

And, lest they should vanish, I hastily tore 
A leaf from my grocery-book, and began — 

“ O beautiful gift of the skies unto man ! 

Thou comest, blest symbol of peace and of love, 
And foldest thy wings o’er the earth like a dove. 
So soft-” 


“ Do yees want yer paths shovelled ? ” My 
heart! 

That Irish boy's voice never gave such a start. 

Close up by the window he stood. “ The snaw’s 
dape, 

An' I'll do it fur twinty-five cints, an' that’s 
chape." 

Indignant, I fiercely refused him, and then 

Took tenderly up my poor poem again. 

n5 



XaES of tbc Xafte 

“ So soft over all thy pure mantle is rolled, 

Thou hidest each blemish with fold upon fold. 
Oh, thus-” 

“ Here’s a man, Mrs. Brown, fur de roof. 

He says dat tar-mixture am not waterproof; 

Dat de snow’ll soak froo, an’ de roofin’ll rust, 
An’ sho, in de spring, all de leadahs’ll bust.” 

“ O Dinah! ” I threw myself back in my chair, 
And sank to the very last depths of despair. 

The spell had been broken ; still, I was resigned. 
(To wish her in Guinea was nothing unkind;) 
Yet her dark face had scarce disappeared from 
the door, 

Ere I thrilled with a sweet inspiration once more. 
Those pure, fleecy flakes that were filling the air, 
Seemed messengers from some mysterious where. 
Each flake, as it fell, dropped a thought in my 
heart ; 

I picked up my pencil, and made a fresh start. 

“ Oh, thus,” I began, glancing forward and back, 
To be sure I was running along a clear track — 

“ Oh, thus doth the mantle of Charity fall, 

To cover the weakness and sin of us all.” 

A foot on the step, and a ring at the door, 

Broke in on my smooth-flowing measures once 
more. 

My temper is sweet, I may say without pride, 
Yet I cannot but own I was terribly tried: 

116 



Dialect TRbgntes 


Not angry, oh, no, not a particle vexed, 

But only so dreadfully grieved and perplexed. 

I sat like a martyr awaiting his doom, 

When, lo! a policeman marched into the room. 


“ Your walks is impassable, madam. Good- 
day." 

And the faithful official rejoiced on his way. 

And still fell the snowflakes, as though the kind 
clouds 

Had spent the whole summer in weaving soft 
shrouds 

For flowers that must die on the earth’s gentle 
breast, 

That now fell, to wrap them away to their rest. 

O beautiful snow! Why, there’s Tom at the 
door. 

“ Tom, dear, but you’re leaving such tracks on the 
floor, 

You’re ruining the carpet-" 

“ Oh, never mind that. 

Just pull off my ulster, and hang up my hat; 

I’ve had such a fall, I came down on my wrist, 

And gave it, great Scot! the most vicious old 
twist; 

Do send for the doctor; and then run and bring 

The arnica bottle, and make me a sling." 

ii 7 



Hags of tbe Xafte 

’Tis a month since that day, and this morning I 
took 

My poor little piece from the grocery-book. 

It will never be finished ; the beautiful snow 
Went off in a thaw, about two weeks ago, 

While I had poor Tom on my hands. It’s too 
bad 

That my poem, which started so sweetly, and had 
Such a really refined and poetical gush, 

Should end in an arnica bottle and slush. 


MRS. VAN DUSEN’S VANDU 


u 


f 


T agg’avates me,” said good Mrs. Van 
Dusen, 

“ To think that a cousin of mine. 
Especially that little do-nothing Susan, 

Should have her house fixed up so fine. 


“ A big Morris chair with a plush cushion on it, 
Bright green striped with red,—I declare, 

That plush would look nice on a best winter 
bonnet, 

And think of it once, on a chair! 


“ Her couches, and carpets, and dishes are finer 
Than any I ever saw sold, 

While look at our haircloth, and ugly blue china, 
Not less than a hundred years old.” 

118 


Dialect IRbsmes 

“ Oh, wal’, what’s the diffurnce ? ” said Mr. Van 
Dusen, 

“ Yer grampa, he liked things this way. 

That truck o’ Susanna’s is simply amusin’, 

So tumble glary and gay.” 

My grampa!—great, great, you may say, for he 
had ’em, 

These very old duds, jest the same ; 

We haven’t a thing but what’s older than Adam. 
Why, Susan, she thinks it’s a shame.” 

“ Wal’, then, let 'er think,” said wise deacon Van 
Dusen, 

“ I jest as liv’s have our things old; 

Her man dasn’t go through the rooms with his 
shoes on, 

Fur fear she’ll git fussy, and scold. 

“ But, if y’re so set on new things, why, I’m 
goin’ 

Next week, with the Grangers, to town, 

Ye’ll see what I’ll fetch, sumpthin’ new, ther's no 
knowin’ 

It might be a bunnit an’ gown.” 

But Mrs. Van D-had her visions of glory. 

Next day, while her husband sowed wheat, 
The old auctioneer took a full inventory 
Of all her possessions complete. 

119 



Xa£3 of tbc Xafce 

From attic to cellar they tramped, while she 
wondered 

How much her belongings might “ bring,” 

“ Dun’no,” said old Larkin, “ it might be five 
hunderd, 

Concludin’ a’most ever’thing. 

“ I might give ye thet, ez it’s you, Mis Van 
Dusen. 

Say five hunderd down, on the spot, 

Then hold the vandu, with my chances o’ losin', 

An’ git what I kin, fur the lot. 

“ What say ? Oh, no; Van wouldn’t like to see 
strangers 

Tote off this here truck in his sight. 

I’ll hold it next week, while he’s gone with the 
Grangers, 

Say Wednesday er Thursday;—all right. 

“ Leave ever’thing stand, the old clock on the 
landin’, 

The andirons, an’ all the old trash. 

I’ll take the hull lot, jest the way that it’s 
standin’, 

An' fetch ye five hunderd in cash.” 

So, it was agreed, and the days passed in quiet, 

Though Mrs. Van D-sometimes thought: 

“ I feel kinder mean, there’s no use to deny it, 

I’m doin’ what I hadn’t ought. 

120 



EMalect TRb^mes 

“ These tables and chairs look like friends and 
relations, 

Their claw-feet seem clutchin’ the floor, 

The places they’ve stood on for five generations, 
From which they’re so soon to be tore." 


The days went, and off to the Grangers’ Conven¬ 
tion 

Went Mr. Van D-; but alack ! 

Against his own pleasure, and plan and intention, 
The very next train brought him back. 


“ Mariar," he said, “ when I went to the City, 

I promised I'd fetch sumpthin’ new. 

I think this here handbill is strikin’ and pretty; 
It’s headed : ‘ Van Dusen’s Vandu ! ’ ” 


“ Why, Josha—Josh—Joshaway Van ! did you 
ever ? 

Our things, all set down in detail, 

That Larkin called trash ! Look at this, well, I 
never! 

* A Three Thousand Dollar Grand Sale ’!" 

“ Oh, Larkin ’ud sell his poor soul fur a shillin’, 
The wuthless, contemptible sneak ! 

An’ see how he labels ’em here, the old villin ! 
W’y, every blame thing’s a anteek.’’ 

121 



Xags of tbe Xafce 

“ Oh, Joshaway, stop, you forget how you’re 
speakin’,” 

Cried terrified Mrs. Van D-. 

“ You’re usin’ onsuitable words fur a deacon, 

An’ the. heft o’ the blame is on me. 

“ I see it all now,—it was vain, silly weakness 
To want these good things to be sold ; 

But I never knew about all this anteekness. 

I thought that the things was jest old.” 

“ Wal’, wal’, now, don’t cry. Of all things that’s 
most tryin’,— 

The thing I can’t stand, never could. 

The wust thing on earth’s to see wimminfolks 
cryin’, 

An’ don’t do the least mite o’ good. 

u Besides that, Mariar, sence you’ve learnt yer 
lesson, 

Ye don’t need to feel no alarm. 

It seems more thun likely to prove a great 
blessin'; 

Er leastways, it hain’t done no harm. 

“ Ole Larkin an' me’s hed it out on the journey, 
An’, sure 'nuff, the tables is turned. 

I ’spishuned a trick; so I fetched an attorney, 
An' this here Vandu is rejourned. 

122 



Dialect IRb^mes 

“ He’s goin’ round now, tearin’ down these old 
placards. 

It doos make me laugh fit to kill, 

To think how he’s runnin’,to front yards an’ back 
yards, 

Wherever he’s posted a bill.” 

“ Thank goodness! I never did feel half so 
thankful. 

I’ve lived the hull week in disgrace. 

I’d give all the money we’re wuth, yes, a bank-full, 

To dast look that clock in the face. 

u Let Susan keep all her new things, I would 
ruther 

She’d set in her big Morris chairs, 

And let me keep this, that was sot in by mother, 

Where grampa knelt down to his prayers. 

“ We might have chose different things, if we’d 
choosed ’em; 

But such things ain’t wuth no great fuss, 

Except f ur the sake of the folks that has used 'em,— 

Our folks, that has left ’em to us. 

“ So I'll dust the house, while you go to your 
labors; 

And thankful the old things ain’t new.” 

And that was the last that was heard by the 
neighbors, 

Of Mrs. Van Dusen’s Vandu. 

123 






PART II 

flfcusfnos mb Memories 








Housings aitb Memories 


SABBATH STILLNESS 


S ILENCE sweeter than all sound, 
Calm to other hours unknown, 
Wraps the sacred Sabbath round,— 
Priestly garment, fringed alone 
By the water’s twinkling tone, 

Or the silv’ry bells that ring, 
Where, in forest shades profound, 
Summer insects softly sing. 

Bowed, we wait, if now may fall, 
Through yon thinly veiled skies, 

On our ears some strange, sweet call 
To behold, with mortal eyes, 

Where His bright Shekinah lies, 

In the Holiest of all. 


(. Frontispiece .) 


127 



Xa^s of tbe Xake 


“ IT IS FINISHED " 


© 


NE finished life, and only one, 

Since life’s long record first began, 
Or death's surprise, o’ertaking man, 
Gave sudden pause to deeds half done. 


Our purposes o’erlap our days ; 

Life, with its plans, its powers, unspent, 
Is folded as a shepherd’s tent, 

And silently we go our ways. 

One finished life, and only one. 

Were this our life, to do His will, 

Death would but finish and fulfil 
Our last desire : Thy will be done. 


128 































































































“STANDING TIPTOE THERE, A TREE” 




busings anb Memories 


THE RIFTED ROCK 


H LEDGE of rifted rock I know, 

A narrow, giddy ledge to see, 

And, standing tiptoe there, a tree, 
Mirrored in watery depths below. 

And taller, braver, year by year, 

It flings its leafy banners free, 

And claps its hands in very glee, 

As who should say: “ I know no fear." 

Ay, who should fear ? Shall storm or shock 
Of earth or Heaven harm thee or me? 
Alike we safely stand, my tree, 

Firm rooted in the Rifted Rock. 


129 


%a vq ot tbe Xafce 


EASTER DAWN 


ir 


T is the early morning, 

The dawn breaks chill and gray, 
Out through the gloom 
To seek His tomb 
The women wend their way; 
Frail, loving, fearing, and alone, 
And who shall roll away the stone ? 


Oh, sweet my trembling sisters, 

I seem to hear the beat 
Of hearts whose pain 
Is born again, 

Of flying, faltering feet. 

My service waits ; and I, alone, 

How can I roll away the stone ? 

O Thou, whose strong swift legions 
Await on poised wing, 

If this my task, 

Grant now, I ask, 

The aid Thine angels bring ; 

Bid them descend at dawn of day, 

And roll, for me, the stone away. 


130 


^Busings anO dBemotfes 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 

Persons 


Z 


HE King—of a condemned and rebel race. 
The High Priest—entered in the Holy 
Place. 

The Atoning Victim—on the altar stone. 

A Man—to intercede before the throne. 

One—Jesus Christ. 


“ TO THE SOCKET ” 


*71 ^ walked and talked those golden days, 

LILII We told our stories, one by one, 
Till he, whose words were passing 
praise, 

Gave this, when all the rest had done, 

The while we walked the woodland ways, 
Between the shadow and the sun. 


Upon an antique seal, in quaint design, 

A candle burns ; as by its rays illumed, 

One reads beneath the effigy this line: 

“ By giving light I am myself consumed.” 
Witness, O chrysolite, for all that live; 

Each holy martyr witnesseth the same, 

Ay, even He, our Light, Himself must give. 
Wouldst thou give light ? Thyself must feed 
the flame. 



Xags ot tbe Xafte 


THE THREE KINGS 

Tr. Heinrich Heine 


^^HREE holy kings from the morning-land, 
In every village they pause and stand : 

“ Dear men and maids, can ye guide us 
down 

The road that leads to Bethlehem-town ? ” 


But the young and old, they could not say, 
And the three kings fared along their way. 
Then a golden star in Heaven shone, 

Tenderly beckoning on and on. 

The star stands still o’er a lowly stall, 

The kine low soft, with answering call, 

An Infant wails ; and they joyful stand, 

And sing,—the kings from the morning-land. 

Refrain :— 

Then follow them down, follow them down, 

To the star-lit stall in Bethlehem-town, 

Follow and sing, with an offering, 

To the new-born Babe, to the Christ our King. 


132 


fl&uslngs anD /Hbcmorfea 


THE ANGELUS 



HEAR the distant Angelus 
Ring out the three times three, 

To name again and yet again, 

The Blessed Trinity. 

To call my soul from earth, and bring 
Heaven’s message down to me. 


Not as to cloistered saint, whose soul, 
In tune with things unseen, 

Leaves holy thoughts for holier, 

With pause for prayer between, 
Rings out the call, with rise and fall, 
So sweet and so serene; 


But as though angels three were sent, 
With lily bells of white, 

To sound a summons to my soul, 

I hear them from the height, 

Call: “ Put away the dust of day, 
And robe thee for the night.” 

“ Put off the earthy, lift thine eyes 
Up from the crumbling clod. 

Rise higher than the dust thy feet 
The weary day have trod. 

Lift up thine eyes, behold the skies. 
Behold the hills of God.” 


*33 


Xa^s of tbe Xafce 


" OUT OF THE DEPTHS " 


n 



UT of the depths,” where, faint, we cling 
In faith that questions not, nor strives, 

“ Out of the depths,” like pearls we bring 
The priceless lessons of our lives. 


So slow we are to meet His will, 

So stubborn to resist His word, 

We match our puny reason still, 

Against the mandate of our Lord ; 

Till in some silence lone and vast, 

Some deep-sea sounding of the soul, 
With spirit hushed, at last, at last, 

We yield our will to His control. 

Like Nineveh’s unwilling seer 

We hear the word : “ Arise, and go ! ” 
And when like him, o’ercome by fear, 
Our faltering spirits answer “ No; ” 

God’s winds pursue us as we flee. 

Where His accusing waves are driven, 
The storm-tossed bark upon the sea 
Becomes the judgment bar of Heaven. 
134 


d&ustngs anfc Memories 


And we, with fainting soul must go 
Alone into those depths profound, 

Where all His billows overflow ; 

Where His great stillness wraps us round. 

With trembling trust to Him we cling; 

His love uplifts, He guides our way, 

“ Out of the depths ” at last we bring 
Life’s peerless lesson—to obey. 


B 


WAITING 

S the smooth, still waters lie, 
Waiting for the winds that go 
Gently wafting to and fro, 
Waiting thus, O Lord, am I. 
Willing, without other will 
Than the willingness to be 
Moving, moved upon by Thee, 
Quiet, if Thou sayst: “ Be still." 


135 


Xags of tbe Xafte 


“MY FATHER KNOWS IT ALL” 


^^^ILLyou feel the good ship stagger and reel, 
LI. When seas would overwhelm, 

With a storm-struck tremor from deck to 
keel ; 

You never can know what it is to feel 
“ The pilot is at the helm.” 


Till you try the treacherous Alpine pass, 
You never can learn to say, 

With a trembling foot on the sea of glass, 
Or a shudder to leap the deep crevasse, 

“ The guide knows all the way.” 

And until life's troubles and sorrows press, 
And its darker shadows fall; 

You will never know how trials can bless, 
Nor, looking aloft from deep distress, 

Say: " My Father knows it all.” 


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d&ustngs anD flbemorteg 


MISSIONARY HYMN 



OD of the ages, as they roll, 

God of each passing day and hour, 
We thank Thee for Thy kind control; 
We praise Thee for Thy boundless 
power. 


We bless Thee that our lives are Thine, 
That, humbly working, we may be 
Parts of Thine infinite design, 
Co-laborers, O Lord, with Thee. 


We praise Thee for our sainted dead 
Who serve to-day about Thy throne; 
We stand to labor in their stead, 

And reap the fields that they have sown. 

Grant that Thy grace and power may come 
On all where’er Thy servants are, 

On those who plan and pray at home, 

On those who reap white fields afar. 


With willing hearts Thy people bless, 
And consecrate us all to Thee; 
Bring in Thy reign of righteousness, 
And Thine shall all the glory be. 


137 


3Lass of tbe Zafce 


WATERS IN THE WILDERNESS 

^HE “ Prince of Peace/' King Solomon, 
Looked o’er the arid land 
That eastward lay towards Babylon, 

A sea of desert sand. 

“ Let rivers from the mountains flow ! ” 
Went forth the royal word; 

And streams straightway descend, as though 
The hillside fountains heard. 

By labor long of many hands, 

By tireless toil and slow, 

A channel deep grew through the sands, 
Where those cool streams might flow. 

They came with touch of mountain snows, 
With breath of mountain balms ; 

And on the plain Palmyra rose, 

The “ City of the Palms.” 

It rose amid the waste of sand, 

A joy to weary eyes, 

A very Elim in the land, 

A pilgrim’s paradise. 

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busings anD Memories 


Thus saith our Prince of Peace to-day : 

“ Send forth the stream of grace; 

Let willing hands prepare a way 
In every desert place.” 

Shall we not heed our King's command, 
Till free that river flows, 

Till every dry and desert land 
Shall blossom as the rose ? 

Ah, think what joy our toil shall bring, 
When weary, waiting eyes 
Shall see the City of the King, 

The Palms of Paradise. 


139 


Xa^s of tbe Xake 


A DREAM 



F, while the light of sunset lies 
Across the level sea, 

To opened gates of Paradise 
A path were made for me, 


A footing firm from brink to brink, 
A bridge of burnished gold, 

That I might tread secure, nor sink, 
Through fear, like him of old; 


And if, with swiftly flying feet, 

That pathway might be passed, 

And we for one sweet hour might meet,— 
At last, Dear Heart, at last! 


How could I meet thee, face to face, 
And gaze into thine eyes; 

If, looking from that holy place 
With questioning surprise, 

And gentle voice, I heard thee ask: 

“ Why art thou come to me ? 

And why hast left that lowly task 
The Master set for thee ? 


“ This were not Paradise, if still 
My word could bid thee stay; 
'Tis Paradise to do His will; 

’Tis Heaven to obey/* 

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busings anD Memories 


“ TO THE END ” 

Matt. x. 22. 


^^*IS not enough that they who run 
LI. To gain a crown of bay 

Should only win as they begin, 
Then falter by the way. 

Who wins in part, but not the whole, 
Wins naught; the crown is at the goal. 


'Tis not enough for those who fight, 
That deeds of fame be done, 

If they give o’er, and rest before 
The day is fairly won. 

True triumph comes when toil is past; 
He conquers best who conquers last. 


'Tis not enough, O soul of mine, 

That thou hast well begun, 

If, lacking strength, thou fail at length, 
Before thy race is run. 

Press on! thy Lord new strength will lend; 
Fight on, “ enduring to the end.” 


%a £0 of tbe Xafte 


FAITH 


<s 


IFT of faith, transcendent treasure, 
In thy light the gifts of earth, 
All of profit, all of pleasure, 

Are as things of little worth. 


Taught by thee, we calmly credit 
Wonders passing human ken, 
Knowing only “ He hath said it,” 
Asking not the why nor when. 


Stayed by thee, our footsteps follow 
O’er the desert’s shifting sand, 

Through the Red Sea’s wind-swept hollow, 
Onward to the Promised Land. 


Clouds may gather round about us, 
Foes prevail to do us wrong, 

All within and all without us 

Share the conflict fierce and strong ; 

Doubts may threaten with disaster, 
Even the very voice of prayer, 
Lifted to the loving Master, 

Seem to strike the empty air; 

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Then thy hand shall lift the curtain 
Hanging heavily between 
All the palpable and certain 
And the limitless unseen; 

Lift our longing souls and show us, 
As upon the heights we stand, 
Clouds and conflicts far below us, 
Glimpses of the Glory-land. 

Yea, and in the strife's glad ending, 
In the triumph over death, 

We shall sing, to Heaven ascending, 
“ Thine the victory, O Faith !" 


143 


ot tbe Xafce 


THE ROCK 




ONDER rises the Rock, 

Sheer from the water’s edge, 
Holding its tower on high; 
Half a thousand feet from the lapping 
waves and sedge, 

To the blue line of the sky. 


In tattered lichens clad, 

Battered and old and gray, 

Gazing abroad o’er all, 

O’er vales of peace and off, where 
mountains far away, 

Like billows rise and fall. 


Facing the storms and heat, 
Stalwart and stern it stands. 

While the centuries march by; 
Reaching aloft, and so, with clutch 
of iron bands, 

Holding its tower on high. 

Thus stood the templed Mount, 
The Holy Hill of God, 

Mocking the march of men; 

The Babylonian horde thereon in 
triumph trod, 

Crusader and Saracen. 

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ZlBuslngs anD Memories 


The man of Macedon 
For higher conquest, turned 
Him from the Holy Place; 

And the unhallowed Greek his filthy 
offering burned 
Before Jehovah's face. 

Still stable stood the Rock, 
Undaunted, undismayed, 

Steadfast as when it bore 
Jehovah's altar, and with offerings 
overlaid 

Araunah's threshing floor. 

Stood as it stands to-day, 

Rugged, brave-browed, alone, 

'Mid falseness unafraid, 

Pattern and prototype of all 
Jehovah’s own, 

Who on His strength are stayed. 

Deep-rooted, fearless, firm, 

In stress of storm and strife 
Unshaken by the shock. 

Held by His hidden strength, anchored 
in Love and Life, 

For aye abides the Rock. 


145 


3La£0 of tbe Xafce 


“ COME, REST A WHILE ” 



ARD-WROUGHT and weary, now to 
rest a while, 

Soothed by the world’s sweet beauty and 
the Master’s smile; 


From morn till noon perchance at ease to lie, 
The azure lake below, above the azure sky; 

For ceaseless voices and the city’s roar, 

Only the gentle ripple of the dipping oar; 


For shores tired feet had trod day after day, 

A sunlit scene of verdure, silent, far away. 

Blest boon of isolation, kind relief 
From press of human presence, respite sweet and 
brief; 


And then ? Once more the crowds that throng 
the shore; 

The teaching, feeding, healing round of toil once 
more! 

Gennesaret. 


I46 


busings anD Memories 


BEING AND DOING 


OVE is a fountain, its fulness bestowing, 
Hearts brimmed with love will be ever 
outgoing; 

Deeds are but drops of the soul's overflowing. 


Love is a flower, rich odors possessing; 

Ah! there bloom spirits, sweet, past all express¬ 
ing; 

Freely their fragrance floats outward in blessing. 


Simply to be, that is life’s golden dower; 
Breathing out fragrance needs no subtle power; 
Needs but the being a sweet-scented flower. 

Be, and the world shall thy doing discover; 
Others will find, as the bees find the clover; 
Others will drink of the fount flowing over. 


147 


Xa^s ot tbe Xafte 


THE SCULPTOR 


LOWLY, the rough-hewn block, the master 
eyed, 

Boldly he struck, with swift, unsparing 
touch, 

And, " Stay thy hand, O master wise,” they 
cried; 

" Stay, lest thou rob the marble overmuch.” 


“ Patience,” the master said; “ even now mine 
eyes 

Within the stone the imprisoned angel see. 
Patience, ye shall behold its form arise; 

I only haste to set the angel free.” 


So ;—let the lesson old, 

The story oft retold, 

Come to thy struggling soul like some new 
thought; 

Come in the hour of trial, 

Of bitter, hard denial, 

And teach again the trust so often taught;— 

Teach trust, that we who stand 
Beneath the Master's hand, 

The imperfect semblance of what we must be, 

In patience may abide, 

Letting His love decide 
Who only smites to set the angel free. 

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fl&usinQS an£> Memories 


THE POTTER 

B S clay in the hand of the potter lies, 

Obedient, yielding, so I would rest, 

In the hand of the Master, kind and wise, 
To be molded and formed as seemeth 
best. 


I would question not, though His loving skill 
May to-day lift up and again lay low; 

But wait as the clay on the guiding will 
That maketh the perfect outline grow. 


I would trust, though He disappoint my days, 
While others rejoice in their heart’s desire; 
Some clay may need only the sun’s bright rays, 
While other must pass through the furnace fire. 

I would trust and wait, letting Him decide, 
Obedient, yielding, as waits the clay, 

Knowing only—I shall be satisfied 

When in His own likeness I wake one day. 


149 


Xa^s of tbe Xafte 


DUTIES 


m 


HAT are duties done ? 

Seeds the wind will blow away. 

They shall grow and bloom some day; 
Fragrant blossoms, fresh and gay, 

We shall gather by the way. 

Poppy petals shall be spread, 

For a sweet and dreamless bed, 

When the night comes on. 


What are duties left undone? 
Sharp-edged stones we fling away. 
They shall bruise our feet some day; 
Meet us, whereso’er we stray, 

Lying all along the way. 

They will make a cruel bed, 
Whereon we must lay our head, 
When the night comes on. 


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jfl&uslngs attD Memories 


“ ART THOU WEARY ? ” 



RT thou weary, O my heart ? 
I am weary too. 

'Tis a dreary painful part, 
This, we daily do. 


“ Ay, but weary one and worn, 
Think that for a King is borne 
All thy burden." 

For a King, but, O my heart, 

'Tis a burden still; 

And the yoke doth gall and smart 
'Gainst my human will. 


“ Take His yoke, 'twill fit thy neck. 
Reck not of the toil, but reck 
Of the guerdon.” 


Xas 0 of tbe Xafte 


HEIMWEH 



HE world is very bright and fair 
Wherein I dwell; 

How sweet its joys, sweet even its care ; 
I love it well. 


Yet oft from its best bliss I turn 
All unbeguiled ; 

And for my Father's house I yearn, 
A homesick child. 


Fair are the hills of earth that here 
Around me rise, 

Lifting white crowns through sunlight clear 
Toward His great skies. 

Yet fairer gleam those hills of God 
In perfect light, 

By His home-gathered children trod 
Who walk in white. 

Here peaceful rivers on and on 
Flow fair and free ; 

But, oh, yon river by His throne 
Would I might see! 

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^Busings an£> Memories 


Earth’s goodly fruits to me are given, 
For me they fall; 

But that one healing tree of Heaven 
Were worth them all. 

Father, who in these earthly joys 
On me hast smiled, 

I thank Thee, yet would hear Thy voice 
Call home Thy child. 


XL 


HIS WAY 

IS the way of His appointing, 

First thy heart's best treasure bring, 
First the silent, sweet anointing, 

Then, hosanna, live the King! 

First thy whole heart for the Master, 
Lowly at His feet to lay,— 

'Tis thy box of alabaster,— 

Then, strew palms along His way. 


153 


Uags of tbe Xafce 


“ PREPARE YE THE WAY OF THE 
LORD ” 



HO will hear the Lord to-day ? 
Who the desert voice obey ? 
In his heart prepare the way ? 


Valleys deep to lift are there, 

Wide and wasted, marking where 
Labor lacked, or love, or prayer. 

There are mountains to bring low, 
Pride and selfishness, that so 
Swift the Kingly feet may go. 

Places rough to smooth and clear, 
Judgments harsh and words severe ; 
For the Prince of Peace draws near. 


Who will hail His gentle sway ? 
Who will haste His glorious day ? 
In his heart “ prepare the way ” ? 


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jfl&usfnas ant) Memories 


" HEART, DO NOT FEAR ” 



EART, do not fear, 

Death is not drear; 

'Tis God’s best gift to those most dear. 


So, safe from sight, 

A mother might 

Fold her tired child to slumbers light. 

Whom she loves best 
She soothes to rest 
Most tenderly upon her breast. 

Heart, do not weep, 

'Tis God doth keep; 

“ He givetli His beloved sleep.” 


A PRAYER 


ini ASTER, I have not always followed in 

Xllj Thy way; 

Forgive the wanderings of the past, I 
pray; 

And guide the feet my steps have led astray. 


155 


of the Xafce 


MY DREAM 


f SEE a harvest field, whose gold 

Has turned, unreaped, to dust and mold. 

I see a reaper listless stand, 

A rusted sickle in his hand. 

I see a stream, a shining stream, 

Whose sands run down with golden gleam; 
Beside the shore an idler stands, 

Nor stoops to glean those golden sands. 

I see a day, a radiant day, 

Each hour a jewel, pass away; 

And one, who dreamed as daylight past, 
Wakes, with the twilight hour,—at last; 


With eager energy of haste, 

Snatches, to gain from out the waste 
Some grain of gold, some jewel’s spark, 
Some scattered sheaf—then falls the dark. 


HASTE 



AST thou the light ? 

Oh, then, use it. 
Swift comes the night, 
And we lose it. 

156 


fl&uslnae anD /ifcemodee 


Seed-thoughts hast thou 
In thy keeping ? 

Scatter them now 
For the reaping. 

Seed-corn of gold? 

Scatter faster. 

Bring home tenfold 
To the Master. 

Beauty, or youth, 

Is thy dower ? 

Use for the truth 
All thy power. 

Health ? wealth ? Give all, 
Never falter. 

Swift! let them fall 
On the altar. 

Life speeds away, 

Years are flying, 

While we delay 
Souls are dying. 

Give! for thy Lord 
All has given. 

Sweet thy reward,— 

Home and Heaven. 


157 


Xa^s of tbe Xahe 


MOTHER’S PRAYERS 

p^HERE'S a memory that often 
Steals upon me unawares, 

With its power to touch and soften; 
’Tis the thought of mother’s prayers. 

When the evening shadows darken, 

And the lights are burning low; 

I can hear it as I hearken, 

That sweet sound of long ago. 

When the little ones were nestled, 

And the angels watched above, 

Still the mother-spirit wrestled, 

In its great prevailing love; 

And when dreams came softly stealing 
Through the pauses of the prayer, 

Still in sleep I saw her kneeling 
By the little bedside there. 

Oh, I sometimes think that yonder 
Mother’s voice for me doth pray, 

That my heart may never wander, 

That my steps go not astray. 

In the silence I can hear it, 

With its gentle, pleading tone, 

And I seem to see her spirit, 

Kneeling there, before the throne. 


158 


/^usings anD fl&emorfes 


IMMANUEL 

“ Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.” 

€ T\ VfT| ^ take le S ac y °f love, O Lord, 
LMLI1 The heirloom of Thine own in 
every age, 

Held by the few who caught the spoken word, 

S Sealed for the many on Thy sacred page ; 


Take Thee as Thou art offered, all divine, 
Believing where we cannot comprehend, 

Not striving with our little finite line 

To measure thoughts that earth and Heaven 
transcend. 


We feel Thy presence near. We bow the head 
About Thine altar, breathing words of 
prayer; 

Press to our lips the consecrated bread, 

“ Only believing,” and lo ! Thou art there. 

Around the quiet hearth we bend the knee, 
Telling our daily need, our daily care, 

Pleading the promise to the two or three, 

And, answering ere we ask, lo ! Thou art 
there. 

Help us to dwell within Thy presence thus, 

Our health, our wealth, our daily portion be; 

Help us to take Thee, Lord, to be with us 
Until Thou takest us to be with Thee. 

Si. Paul's , Knightsbridge. 


159 


Xa^s of tbc Xake 


CHRIST, MY KING 



HRIST, my King, on Calvary, 
Crowned with cruel thorn for me, 
Once again Thy suffering 
I behold, O Christ, my King. 


Here I clasp Thy pierced feet, 
Weeping bitter tears, yet sweet; 

To Thy precious cross I cling, 
Trembling, trusting, Christ, my King. 


Oh, the wonder of this hour ! 
Move me, mold me by its power. 
All my being captive bring 
To Thy cross, O Christ, my King. 


Keep that cross before mine eyes, 
Till, all glorious in the skies, 

I shall see, and seeing, sing 
Christ, the crucified, my King. 

Jerusalem, Good Friday . 


160 


/^usings and fl&emorles 


EASTER HYMN 

From the German of RUckert, Translated by 
Rev. Henry W. Smuller 

I^^ROM Easter morning’s leafy wold 

The lark mounts up on dewy wings, 

” And, floating o'er the quiet fold, 

This song she to the shepherds sings : 

“ Awake, the darkness flies ! 

The new day breaks the might of night — 
Awake ye lambs to meet the light, 

From the moist turf arise ! 

“ Our Easter Lamb repaired our loss, 

Did our inheritance restore, 

When, bleeding on the shameful cross, 

The guilt of all His flock He bore; 

The Conqueror claims His meed ! 

The robber grave its prey relieves ; 

And now upon the greenest leaves 
His gentle flock may feed. 

u The tree of life, with forfeit fruit, 

Stood leafless, withering in its doom; 

The Lamb’s fresh blood shall bathe its root — 
Like Sharon's rose it then shall bloom. 

The wrath is borne away; 

Our Shepherd, see ! His flock He leads 
To pasture on the verdant meads 
Of an eternal day.” 

161 


Xags of tbc Xafte 


IN THE SHADOW 



HE roof is low of your little home, 
Where the golden sunlight weaves 
Its fretwork over the narrow dome, 

And the grass-grown, sloping eaves. 


No windows open for winds to pass, 
As they wander to and fro ; 

Nor to let the sunlight in, alas ! 

And you loved the sunlight so ! 


The door is closed. As I lay my flowers 
Silently down on the stone, 

I grieve to think of the long, long hours 
You must rest here, all alone. 

I think of words you would once have said 
For a simple gift like this; 

Of a loving hand laid on my head, 

Of a rare sweet smile, and a kiss. 


I know the lesson you would have taught,— 
Of the ceaseless love and care,— 

Like a breath of subtle fragrance, caught 
From my roses, lying there. 

162 


busings an£> Memories 


No voice speaks now of the ceaseless love, 
From this house so dark and cold; 

This lowly roof, grass-grown above, 

And touched with a glint of gold. 

A shadow falls; like a somber shroud 
It covers the gold with gray. 

’Tis the shadow of a passing cloud 
That trembles, and slips away. 

And I lift my eyes where, over all, 

Gleams the glory, golden bright. 

'Tis only on earth the shadows fall, 

Above is the endless light. 


163 


Xa^s of tbe Xafce 


LINES ON “ LINNET'S” BIRTHDAY 

Eliza Platt Stoddard, Succasunna, N. J. 

H TINY bird flew down to earth, 

In summer’s golden days ; 

The Mother-heart sang at its birth, 

A song of prayer and praise. 

And soon the Linnet learned to sing, 
The song that home loves best, 

Sweet twitterings of brooding wing, 

And of the sheltering nest. 

The days flew lightly by, the lay 
Grew gay with maiden glee; 

No bird upon the bending spray 
Sang blither song than she. 

The golden light of morning gleamed, 
The day rose clear and bright; 

But in her eyes already beamed 
A purer, holier light. 

It fell upon her forehead fair, 

More beautiful than day; 

The angel-hand had rested there, 

That beckoned her away. 

164 


flftuslnss anD /Memories 


And, as the bird that mounts and sings 
Forever as it flies, 

Upborne by song and snow-white wings, 
She vanished in the skies. 

But ever down the summer air 
Float echoes sweet and strong, 

That call on us to follow there, 

And join the angel-song. 

Oh ! sweet, that ever she was sent, 

To draw us to the skies, 

To show our feet the way she went, 

The path to Paradise. 


165 


lags of tbc Xafce 


MY BETHEL 

Olivia Procter, 1809-1893 



HIS is the room where yesterday, 
Breathing her beautiful life away, 
One of the King’s own chosen lay. 


I never looked on the saintly face, 
Crowned with silver and sweet with grace, 
But a halo lingers about the place. 


In the silent night there comes once more 
The pause of a footstep at the door, 

And the gleam of garments along the floor; 


The sense of a holy presence near, 

Of a song that falls on the inward ear, 

An echo of what the angels hear. 

There comes no thought of fear or gloom, 
No dream of dread these shades assume, 
But a benediction rests on the room; 


A conscious nearness to unseen things, 

A sweet protection of angel wings, 

And my soul with her soul at midnight sings. 

166 


busings anD /l&emortes 


And I see the Jordan gently swell, 

And the place where the prophet’s mantle fell, 
And the chariots of Israel; 

And I cannot think I shall not be 
Better for nearness to such as she, 

And I pray that her mantle may fall on me. 

Lake Alohonk. 


167 


XaB0 of tbc Zafte 


AFTERGLOW 



N dreamy days, when autumn draws, 
As it were wove for weary eyes, 

Her filmy veil of silver gauze 

Athwart the brightness of the skies; 


When summer light and summer heat 
Grow mellow with the waning year, 
And, bound in sheaf, the ripened wheat 
Waits for the garner that is near; 


When toil and tumult sweetly cease, 

And every sound is hushed and low, 
And life seems all a sunset peace, 

A glorious, golden afterglow; 

Then, dream most dear and vision bright, 
I seem, sweet soul, to see thee stand, 
White-robed, upon the hills of light, 

And know thee in the morning land; 

A halo soft of silvery hair, 

Where now, I know, the King hath set 
The jeweled crown that victors wear, 

The conqueror's bright coronet: 

168 


/IRuelnga attfc Memories 

And tender, tranquil, full of love, 

Those eyes, so starlike, calm and clear, 

I cannot think, in Heaven above, 

They will be aught they were not here; 

The look of grace, “ the angel face,” 

That calmly fronted death so long, 

The voice whose gladness filled the place, 
Whose supplication seemed a song. 

O golden dream of golden day, 

O presence vanished long ago, 

Light but a little yet the way, 

Before the falling of the snow. 


169 


Xass of tbe Xake 


IN THE SILENT CITY 



HITE and still the snows are spread, 
As we move with muffled tread, 
Through the city of the dead. 


Slowly down the silent street, 
Pausing where the two ways meet. 
Hemlock branches, fresh and sweet 


Shed their pungent odors round, 

Hiding where the new-turned ground 
Rises in a shapeless mound. 

One more rose, a parting token, 

“ Dust to dust," the words are spoken ; 
Lips are sealed, though hearts be broken. 

Leave us here a little space, 

Broken hearts may claim such grace,— 
Just to linger near the place. 


Oh, how patient God can make 
Human hearts. It needs must take 
More than bending : they must break. 

Quietly we learn to stand, 

All earth’s dearest plans unplanned, 
Silent under God’s own hand. 

170 


jfl&ustngs anD Memories 


Round us mounds are rippling fast, 
Wave on wave about us cast, 
Furrows, where the reaper passed. 


First of all yon little rift, 

Where the soft snows gently lift, 
As a light breeze blows a drift. 


“ Dust to dust ” they faltered low 
O’er the fair child long ago, 
Lying there as snow to snow. 


Then, with hearts that ached and yearned, 
Bravely, patiently, they turned 
Toward the lessons yet unlearned; 

Toward the labor, hard and long, 

Toward the righting of the wrong, 

Toward the suffering, and the song; 


Turned, as we must turn, we know, 
Though our hearts lie bleeding so, 
As the roses in the snow. 


Bleed and break, but bear and do; 
Turn and lift life’s load anew, 
Thorny pathways tholing through. 


i/I 


Xa^s of tbe Zafce 

Turn, and take the labor up, 
Carrying an empty cup ; 

Other lips its joys may sup. 

Live and strive, as they have striven, 
Not for what is gained, but given ; 
Toil for earth, and trust for Heaven. 


GUIDANCE 



S sailors through the long night keep 
Upon the stars a watchful eye 
And guide their bark across the deep, 
Reading their pathway in the sky; 


So, safely through the shades I move, 
Content along a trackless way, 
While steadily still beams above 
The Light that never leads astray. 


172 


^Busings anD Memories 


THERE AND HERE 


z 


HE day rolls round, another year, 
And thou art there, and I am here. 
I thought we could not live apart, 
I told it to my broken heart; 

And something whispers thou art near. 

I cannot know how near thou art, 

I only know that thou art dear. 


I only wait, and hold His hand 
Who led thee on, nor understand, 

But that thou art with Him, and He 
Is, and will ever be, with me. 

I only wait, as love hath planned, 

Till darkness by the dawning spanned, 

Some day, some hour, mine eyes shall see, 
Shall greet thee in the Morning Land. 


173 


Za^s of tbe Xafce 


SLEEP, LITTLE MOTHER 



LEEP, Little Mother, sleep sweetly and 
rest; 

Light lie the lilies asleep on thy breast. 


There, our first pillow, we lovingly lay 
Roses and lilies together to-day. 


Pure, loving, gentle, and true to the end, 

Earliest, latest, and faithfulest friend. 

Hold your sweet flowers, dear hands that have 
long 

Lifted life's burdens, so weak, yet so strong. 

Sweet silent lips, could you utter the bliss 
Yon world unfolds, could we linger in this? 

Rest, closed eyes that have looked into Heaven; 
Not yet to us may that vision be given. 

Peace, for the storm-beaten billows are past. 

“ Peace! ” speaks the voice of the Master at last. 

Joy for all sorrow, and gain for all loss, 

Calm for the conflict, a crown for the cross. 

Blest reuniting of each broken chord, 

And sunshine for aye in the smile of thy Lord. 

Sleep, Little Mother, sleep sweetly and rest. 
Short be the parting !—But God knoweth best. 
174 


^U9in05 anD Memories 


A GREETING 



N this day, Dearest, thou wast born. 

And, held by habit still, my heart, 
Thrilled by the first ray of the morn, 
Looks up to greet thee, where thou art. 


Last night I watched those sister spheres 
In radiance rise, the starry seven; 

And told again the circling years 

That mark, for me, thy life in Heaven; 


And wondered if the loving thought 
We cherish here was naught to thee? 
If this dear day was now as naught, 
With neither mark nor memory ? 


Do fond arms still around thee cling, 
In yonder home, as once in this ? 
Does some one say, remembering, 
We give thee greeting, and a kiss ? 


It may be so, it may be so; 

God's silent skies speak not, and yet, 
Our God is love, and this I know, 
Love, taught of Him, cannot forget. 


175 


Xa\>s of tbe Xafte 


GOOD-NIGHT 


0 OOD-NIGHT, good-night, 

To slumber light 

And happy dreams we turn away; 
Sink in sweet counterfeit of death, 
Stirred only by a gentle breath; 

And, waiting for the coming day, 
Across the darkness only say : 
Good-night, good-night. 


And so, good-night, 

To eyes whose sight 
Shall greet no coming earthly day. 

More surely shall their morning rise, 
Than yonder sun shall climb the skies. 
Folded in sleep a while they stay, 

To rest earth’s weariness away, 

A short good-night. 


176 


PART III 


Cbflbren's Ibour 

in tbe 

Sunset parlor 








Cbilbren’s Hour 


A FOREST FIRE 



IRE ! fire ! the woods are on fire! 

Quick ! how the flames leap higher and 
higher. 


Down in the grasses the mischief began, 
Searing the clearing, as swiftly it ran ; 

Crisping the mosses, and curling the ferns, 
Catching the woodbine,—how wildly it burns ! 

Tossing a torch into every dark nook, 
Threading the thicket, and leaping the brook; 


Chasing the creepers, till each, climbing higher, 
Blows his red trumpet, and cries : “ Fire! fire ! ” 

Sumac and goldenrod—how the flames spread ! 
See them mount upward, all yellow and red. 


Upward! the elm branches flicker and flare, 
Upward! the maples have caught the red glare. 


Billows of flame toss the tops of the trees, 
Firebrands are flung on the breath of the breeze. 


Stately, the oak sees its beautiful crown 
Burning, and turning from russet to brown. 

Oh, our fair forest is doomed in a day! 

Hark! hear the North Wind—and what does it 
say? 


179 



of tbe Xafce 


“ Fires may be fierce—they are spent and expire; 
Hearts may grow cold to their dearest desire; 

“ Flames may mount high, but my snow-clouds 
are higher; 

Throw your white blanket, and smother the fire! ” 
THE A. B. C. OF THE GODS 

A 

H POLLO, Phoebus, god of light 
And music, radiantly bright, 

In flaming chariot rolled on high 
From morn till eve across the sky. 

B 

Bacchus, for revel and for rout, 

With grape-wreaths twined his brows about; 
He was the first to grow the vine, 

Or press its juices into wine. 

c 

Cupid could speed his well-aimed dart, 

And fill with love fair Psyche’s heart; 

While Ceres covered field and plain 
With rising waves of golden grain. 

D 

Diana, with her crescent crowned, 

Attended by her hunting-hound, 

Would chase the dappled deer at noon, 

And move, at night, the rolling moon. 

180 


GbUDren's Dour 


E 

Elysium, in the golden west, 

Was the abode of heroes blest; 

But Erebus through darkness led 
To lower darkness and the dead. 

F 

Flora, the goddess of the flowers, 

Decked all the gardens, lawns, and bowers, 
While the fierce Furies and the Fates, 

Dealt destinies, and nurtured hates. 

G 

The Graces three o'er art held sway, 

And sweetly ruled each festal day. 

The Gorgons, likewise sisters three, 

Portrayed the terrors of the sea. 

H 

Hebe, of youth the goddess fair, 

The nectar of the gods did bear, 

Till once she tripped, and dropped the cup ; 
When Ganymede took it up. 

i 

Iris, the bright-eyed messenger 
Of Juno and of Jupiter, 

Often to earth on errands sent, 

Stepped down where bright the rainbow bent. 

181 


Xags ot tbe 3Lafte 


J 

Juno and Jupiter together, 

Ruled gods and men, ruled wind and weather. 
O’er all of earth and heaven unseen, 

They held their sway as king and queen. 

K 

Kronos, or Saturn, banished king, 

In Tartarus lone wandering, 

Father of all the gods of old, 

Reigned in the famous Age of Gold. 

L 

Lares and Penates in Rome, 

Though humble, were the gods of home. 

Still by the hearth pure Vesta stands, 

The Hestia of Hellenic lands. 

M 

Mars was the glorious god of war;_ 

Right well we know his ruddy star;— 

While high Minerva wisdom taught, 

And Mercury swift tidings brought. 

N 

Neptune across the waves would speed, 

With trident raised and tossing steed, 

While sea-nymphs round his shell would play, 
And Tritons hold a holiday. 

182 


CbUOren's Dour 


o 

On Mt. Olympus used to dwell, 

As the most ancient poets tell, 

In Iliads and Odysseys, 

All the great gods and goddesses. 

p 

Pluto, in the dark world unseen, 

Ruled with Proserpina, his queen. 

As Phoebus ushered in the day, 

These in the realm of night held sway. 

Q 

Queer as it seems, none ever knew 
A god whose name began with Q. 

The Greeks, of course, could do no better, 
Their alphabet had no such letter. 

R 

Rhea was Saturn's queen, and she 
Had a most famous family; 

Great J upiter, and all the others ; 

She was the most renowned of mothers. 

s 

Selene all good Grecians knew, 

The moonlight mother of the dew; 

But Sirens, singing in the sea, 

Put sailors' lives in jeopardy. 

183 


Xags of tbe Xafte 


T 

Thetis was justice, still she stands, 
Holding her balance in her hands; 

But o’er the dance, so light and free, 
Presided young Terpsichore. 

u 

Urania, with her rod afar 
Traced forms of light from star to star; 
Muse of the midnight, half divine, 
Matchless among the mystic nine. 

v 

Venus, the name is Italy’s, 

Dream for divine Praxiteles, 

Fair Aphrodite of the Greeks, 

Still from mute lips of marble speaks. 

w 

We find no god for W ; 

Vulcan, though lame, will have to do; 
He wrought in metals with huge blows, 
His forges were the volcanos. 

x 

Xuthus first greets the Grecian light 
Just where it glimmers forth from night, 
Where vague, unwritten history 
Is merging out of mystery. 

184 


GbtlOren’s ibour 


Y 

Yet, though the foremost of his race, 

We set him in the final place. 

Thus is the scroll of fame reversed, 

And those come last who should stand first. 

z 

Zeus, the great Jupiter of Greece, 

First among gods, with him we cease. 

We fare ye well, from A. to Zed; 

And so, our A. B. C.’s are said. 


LADY JEANNE DE BEAUFORT 


i 



F all the old stories old England can tell 
Of ancient romance and love lore, 
Not one is so tender and tearful as well, 
As the story of Lady Beaufort. 


The poet Prince Jamie looked down from the 
Tower, 

Where he was imprisoned of yore, 

And there like a flower, in her fair garden 
bower, 

Stood the Lady Jeanne de Beaufort. 


She stood mid her roses, the queen of them all, 
The Prince felt inclined to implore 
He might be permitted to rush forth and fall 
At the feet of this Lady Beaufort. 

185 


Xags of tbe Xafce 

He wrote a long poem—not badly, I think — 

To her whom he learned to adore 
As daily he gazed, through his small window 
chink, 

At the beautiful Lady Beaufort. 

Like fragrance of flowers that round her rose 
sweet, 

The poor prisoned Prince could but pour 
His humble oblation of love at the feet 
Of the lovely Jeanne de Beaufort. 

But the time came at last to restore him his 
pride, 

His own royal right to restore, 

And back to fair Scotland he bore as his bride 
The sweet Lady Jeanne de Beaufort. 

ii 

There was crowning at Scone, on the sacred old 
stone, 

And what could King James have asked 
more? 

There was peace on the throne, with his gentle 
wife Joan, 

Our own English Jeanne de Beaufort. 

But a dark day was coming. Alas, that it came! 

'Twas a day for good Scots to deplore; 
Conspirators cruel, led on by false Graeme, 
Broke the heart of the Lady Beaufort. 

186 


Children's Ibout 

With the King at his need no defender stood 
near, 

Not a broadsword or flashing claymore, 

Only brave Lady Douglass, the name above 
fear, 

And his faithful Jeanne de Beaufort. 

Right brave was the Lady; her fair arm she 
bared, 

And with it she barred the great door. 

Till the bolt broke in twain, like a Douglass she 
dared 

For her King and her Lady Beaufort. 

And fearless and firm, in her patience and pride, 
Though cruelly wounded and sore, 

Till lifeless, her Lord fell at last at her side, 
Stood the loyal Jeanne de Beaufort. 

Alas, for the deed ! and alas, for the day 
That the poor hapless King ever bore 
From her beautiful garden of roses away, 

The dear Lady Jeanne de Beaufort. 


187 


lags ot tbe Xafte 


THE SILLY GOOSE 


z 


HERE’S a queer old story which you shall 
hear. 

It happened, once on a time, my dear, 
That a goose went swimming on a pond, 

A pleasure of which all geese are fond. 

She sailed about, and to and fro, 

The waves bent under her breast of snow, 
And her red feet paddled about below, 

But she wasn’t a happy goose—oh, no ! 


It troubled her more than she could tell, 

That in the town where she chanced to dwell, 
The saying of “ stupid as a goose,” 

Was one that was very much in use. 

For sneers and snubbing are hard to bear, 

Be he man or beast, I do not care, 

Or pinioned fowl of the earth or air, 

We’re all of the same opinion there. 


Now, as she pondered the matter o’er, 

A fox came walking along the shore; 
With a pleasant smile he bowed his head, 
“ Good-evening, Mrs. Goose ! ” he said. 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Fox ! ” quoth she, 
Looking across at him tremblingly, 

And, fearing he had not had his tea, 
Pushed a trifle farther out to sea. 

188 



THE SILLY GOOSE 























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































Gbllbren's Ibout 


She had little harm to fear from him ; 

For with all his tricks he could not swim, 
And, indeed, his voice was sweet and kind. 

“ Dear Mrs. Goose, you’ve a troubled mind ; 
I only wish I could help you through, 
There’s nothing I would not gladly do 
For such a beautiful bird as you." 

Which sounded nice, and was really true. 


“ Well, then, Mr. Fox," the goose replied, 

“ It hurts my feelings, and wounds my pride, 
That in these days my sisters and I, 

Who saved old Rome by our warning cry, 
Should be called the silly geese. Ah, me! 

If I could learn something fine, you see, 

Like writing, or reading the A, B, C; 

What a happy, happy goose I’d be!" 


“ Now, would you, indeed ! " Renard replied 
As the floating fowl he slyly eyed; 

“ I hardly know what ’tis best to say; 

Let’s think about it a moment, pray. 

I may help you yet, my dear, who knows ? " 
So he struck a meditative pose, 

And thoughtfully laid his small, red toes, 

Up by the side of his pointed nose. 

189 


ot tbe Xafte 

“ Ah, yes ! ” he cried, “ I have it at last; 
Your troubles, dear Mrs. Goose, are past; 
There is a schoolmaster, wise and good, 

I know where he lives in yonder wood, 
To-morrow evening, you shall see 
In yon broad meadow his school will be. 
He’ll bring a book with the A, B, C; 

And he’ll give his little lesson free." 


But now just listen, and you shall hear 
About that fox ; he went off, my dear, 

And he bought a coat, and a beaver hat; 
And a pair of specs, and a black cravat. 
Next evening he came dressed up to charm, 
With the little “ Reader " under his arm, 
Where the goose sat waiting without alarm; 
For, indeed, she hadn’t a thought of harm. 


Had she looked at all, you would have thought 
She need not have been so quickly caught, 
For the long red bushy fox’s tail, 

Swept over the meadow like a trail. 

But ’twas rather dark, for night was near, 

And another thing, I greatly fear 
She felt too anxious to see quite clear; 

She was simply a goose of one idea. 

190 


GbUDren’e tbour 


The schoolmaster opens wide his book; 

The goose makes a long, long neck to look; 
He opens his mouth, as if to cough; 

When, snippety-snap ! her head flies off. 
Now, cackle loudly her sisters fond, 

Who are watching proudly from the pond, 
While off to the town that lies beyond, 

The whole of the frightened flock abscond 


That day, the geese made a solemn vow, 
Which their faithful children keep till now, 
That, never shall goose or gosling look 
At any schoolmaster or his book. 

So, if ever you should chance to hear 
Them talking of school, don’t think it queer 
If they say some hard things, or appear 
To show a certain degree of fear ; 

It is always so with geese, my dear. 


%a ve ot tbc Xake 


THE BUBBLYJOCK 1 



T Abbotsford Sir Walter sat, 

His friends about the board 
In easy after-dinner chat; 

When thus an English lord:—. 


“ Talking of troubles, we are told 
Each mortal takes his share. 

Now, there are happy lives, I hold, 
Exempt from thought of care.” 

“ Not so,” Sir Walter said; “ no heart 
That beats in human breast 
But bears apart some inward smart, 
Some burden of unrest.” 


“ I'll venture,” said my lord, “ I’ll find 
One neck without its yoke, 

One truly calm and tranquil mind. 
Take that daft laddie, Jock.” 

By shaded walks of Abbotsford 
Sir Walter led them down ; 

Called the poor lad before the lord, 
Who, tossing half a crown :— 

1 Scotch pronunciation, joke. 


192 


Children's tbouc 


" You live in luck, good Jock, I see, 

Well fed, light work to do?" 

“ Oh, ay. The maister’s gude to me; 

An’ I hae plenty, too." 

“ Well said, brave Jock; and now, once more, 
Of troubles know you aught ? " 

At once his face was “ sicklied o'er 
With the pale cast of thought." 

u Trouble eneuch ! Wha could hae mair? " 
He shuddered as he spoke ; 

“ Oo, ay. Wi’ fear I’m fashit sair. 

Ye’ll mind the bubblyjock?" 

“ The bubblyjock ! What thing on earth 
May that be ? " says my lord : 

Just then, amid a roar of mirth, 

They see, across the sward, 

A turkey-cock of stately size, 

Slow strutting into sight; 

Poor Jock beholds with quailing eyes, 

And quickly takes to flight. 

“ Ah !" says Sir Walter, “ it’s the same 
With all poor human folk; 

Our troubles differ but in name; 

Each has his ‘ bubblyjock.' ” 


193 


Xa^s of tbc Xafte 


FORGETFUL POLLY 



OLLY was a thoughtless child. 

She was never cross nor fretful 
She was neither rude nor wild; 
No, but she was so forgetful. 


y 


Every errand she was sent 

Made the greatest fuss and bother; 
In at one small ear it went 
And it came out at the other. 


“ Polly, you must conquer this/' 

Many times Mamma had told her; 

But she was a careless miss, 

Growing worse as she grew older. 

When her seventh birthday came, 

Came her aunts and all her cousins,— 

Many more than I could name,— 

You might count them by the dozens. 

Thought Mamma : “ I’ll try a plan 
To remind her of her folly. 

It is time that, if I can, 

I should cure my careless Polly." 

So she made a pretty feast, 

In the garden cool and shady; 

There were thirty seats, at least,— 

One for every little lady. 

194 


GbllDren '0 Ibour 


But when they all sat around, 

Feeling very gay and jolly, 

Strange to say, the children found 
That there was no seat for Polly. 

u I forgot you,” said Mamma. 

Polly waited in confusion, 

While they hunted near and far 
For a little box and cushion. 

Then the plates were one too few. 

“ I forgot again, my daughter.” 

Oh! how red poor Polly grew 

When a wooden plate was brought her. 

Spoons and napkins lay around,— 
There was never one for Polly. 

Soon her little playmates found 
She was growing melancholy. 

She had neither cake nor bread, 

Cup of tea nor mug of water; 

Yet her mother only said : 

“ I forgot my little daughter.” 

'Twas a sorry feast, ’tis true, 

For the heedless little creature; 

But she knew, as well as you, 

What her mother meant to teach her. 
195 


Xa£6 of tbe Xafte 


So, when all the friends were gone, 

To the very last relation, 

Polly and Mamma alone 
Had a quiet conversation. 

Polly, after they had done, 

Made a promise, truly spoken. 

Such a good and real one 

It has never yet been broken. 

And when her next birthday came, 
Came her cousins, gay and jolly; 

And a cake, marked with her name, 
Written so: “For Thoughtful Polly.” 


196 


Gbtl&ren's Ibour 


THE LILY-CHILD 



ERE’S a seed upon the ground! 
Smooth and shining, small and round. 


See! Tis lying just below 
Where the lilies used to grow. 


Here’s a secret you must keep, 
In it lies a babe asleep. 

'Tis a cradle warm and tight, 
Let it sink down out of sight. 


Spring will come, and from the skies 
God will call: “ Awake! arise! ” 


It will stand up in its place, 
Smiling into God's own face. 

Men will say: " It is a flower, 
It will wither in an hour.” 


God, who saw it when it smiled, 
God will say: “ It is My child.” 


197 


lags of tbe %afte 


THE PASSING OF UNCLE REMUS 


IT 


SEE a sad procession wind 
Along the pike, wherein 
“ De critters ” every one I find, 
“ Brer Rabbit ” first, and far behind, 
Poor old “ Brer Tarrypin." 


“ Brer Bar ” goes shuffling slowly by, 
His head bent to the ground ; 

The birds and bees all silent fly, 

While “ Mr. Bullfrog," somewhere nigh, 
Croaks with a mournful sound. 


“ Brer Wolf" walks softly, and I “ ’low" 

“ Brer Fox " forgets his jokes ; 

They all “ ain't sayin’ nuthin' " now, 

“ De critters ” feel, they don't know how 
They feel “ des same like folks." 


“ Miss Cow" in sadness shakes her head, 

“ Miss Meadow’s " tears fall fast, 

“ Brer Tukky-buzzard’s " wings are spread, 
A pall of shadow for the dead, 

The “ Old Man," gone at last. 

198 


Gbltoren's Ibour 


But there comes some one sadder yet 
Than these we’ve looked upon, 

The “ Little Boy,” with cheeks all wet, 
The friends who never can forget, 

“ Miss Sally,” and “ Mars John.” 

Dear “ Uncle Remus ! ” let us fall 
Behind, and follow you. 

The girls and boys come without call, 
And grown-up people, one and all; 
We loved you dearly, too. 


199 


THE PRINCESS' CASKET 


H ROYAL young Araby’s daughter, 

A princess both gentle and fair, 
Received from the wise one who taught 
her 

A casket of ivory rare, 

A casket of carving most clever, 

A dainty delight to the eye; 

But, “ Open it not,” said the giver, 

“ Until a whole year has passed by.” 

How oft with the casket before her 

The princess would touch the closed lid, 
And wonder, like little Pandora, 

What treasures beneath it lay hid. 

But time still moves on though it lingers, 
The long year of waiting is past. 

With trembling of fair, slender fingers 
The casket is opened at last. 

Alas ! for the treasure long cherished, 
Behold, but a small shroud of rust, 

A something whose beauty has perished 
As flowers go back to the dust. 

200 


CbilDven's *fcour 


Beneath, on the smooth satin lining, 

A small slip of parchment appears; 

The princess, perplexed and repining, 
Unfolds it and reads through her tears: 

“ This trinket, when herein I placed it, 

Bore one little rust-spot alone; 

But time and neglect have defaced it 
Till now all its beauty is gone. 

44 Learn, princess, how one fault or failing 
May injure a character fair, 

And virtue be all unavailing, 

If one little 4 rust-spot ’ be there. 

44 Place here in your casket a treasure, 

A jewel of untarnished gold ; 

Your eyes may behold it with pleasure, 

Still beautiful when you are old. 

44 And you—with my heart's prayer I ask it— 
Oh, keep yourself spotless from sin, 

Your body the beautiful casket, 

Your soul the pure treasure within." 


201 


%a£6 of tbe Xabe 


THE SILENT SNOW 


<yiyf« HAT is the snow, the wonderful 
snow ? 

^Come here, little flakes that are danc¬ 
ing so; 

Come, whisper to me, and softly tell 
The secrets strange that you keep so well. 

All the day long I have watched you fall, 

Sifting and drifting beside the wall, 

Till the schoolhouse window was heaped and 
piled. 

Did you hear them call me an idle child ? 

Oh, slyly I slipped my slate outside, 

And I caught seven stars, and then I tried 
If you would not speak, and I bended low, 

And I whispered softly, “ Pray tell me, snow ; 
Are you truly the stars that shine so high, 

And have you fallen out of the sky ? ” 

And I lifted my head to list and wait, 

And seven great tears lay on my slate. 

I thought you were sorry that I should ask, 

So I sat quite still, and I learned my task; 

But oh! do you know, you puzzle me so, 

You beautiful, wonderful, silent snow. 


In my little garden where flowers grew, 

There was nothing left when the cold winds blew. 
But my own white rose-bush was standing there, 
With its thorny branches all brown and bare; 
202 


Cbtlfcren'0 ibout 


And the lily-stalks stood up tall and straight, 
And I wondered and wondered what made them 
wait. 

But now the sweet rose that was left forlorn, 

Has a white wreath hanging from every thorn, 
And beautiful lilies swing to and fro, 

On the very stems where they used to grow. 

So, are you a fairy, I’d like to know, 

You beautiful, wonderful, silent snow? j 

But I have seen eyes that grew very sad, 

At the soft flying flakes that make me glad; 

And I have heard stories of mountains high, 
Where people fall down in the snow and die. 

Oh! are you a friend, or are you a foe, 

You beautiful, cruel, silent snow? 

You are my friend, and I love you, too ; 

And I will not think naughty thoughts of you. 

I will laugh and frolic with you, and chase 
The saucy flakes that fly in my face; 

And if ever the far-off time should be, 

That I with sorrowful eyes should see 
You dancing merrily down from the skies, 

Then you will forgive my sorrowful eyes; 

For it never will be your fault, you know, 

My beautiful, wonderful, silent snow. 


203 


of tbe Xafte 


BEIN' GOOD 



EIN’ good's the queeres’ go, 
Worstes' job I ever had. 

How’s a feller s’posed to know 
When 'e’s good, and when 'e’s bad. 


'Iste’day Aunt Sue sez : “ Run, 
Take this letter up to town.” 
An’ I scrambled off like fun; 
Run so fast I tumbled down. 


An’ the gravel peeled my nose; 

An’ my shoe bust out behind; 

An’ I tore my other clo’es: 

But Aunt Sue sez : “ Oh, ne’m mind. 

" Yer a dear, good boy,” sez she, 

“ An’ Aunt Susie ’ll mend yer clo’es; 
Jest ez good ez ye kin be! 

Auntie '11 kiss 'is little nose.” 

But to-day, when Nep an’ me, 

Where her g’ranium plants is sticked, 
Tripped up accidentally, 

She wuz mad, an’ got me licked. 

204 


GbUbren’s Ibout 


Nights, when all the boys is out, 

Playin’ “ den ” er “ chase the sheep ” ; 
Then I’m sure to hear ’em shout: 

“ Time all good boys wuz asleep !” 

But hot Sundays, when we set 
Still in church, till I’m most dead, 
An’ the flies hum-m-ms, an' you bet 
I jest wish I wuz in bed; 

Then they always interfere, 

Givin’ me a little shake, 

An’ a-whisperin’ in my ear: 

“ Good boys alwuz keeps awake.” 

So, that’s jest the way it goes ; 

Worstes’ job I ever had; 

'Cause a feller never knows 

When ’e’s good, er when 'e’s bad. 


i 


205 


3La£s ot the Xafte 


GRAN’MA'S FLITTERS 



HEY’S a thing my Gran’ma makes. 
No, 'tain’t bread, or 'tisn’t cakes; 
Gran’ma calls it flitters, ow ! 

Don’t I wish’t I had some now ? 
Some o’ Gran’ma’s flitters. 


They're des’ crispy-like, an’ fried, 

An’ they’s apples all inside. 

How’d they git there ? I don’ know, 
Guess you think 'at apples grow 
Right inside o’ flitters. 

Don’t know flitters ? Well, I say ! 
Where’s your Gran’ma, anyway ? 

W’y ! I’ve eaten ’em before, 

Till I couldn’t eat no more; 

I’se des’ full o’ flitters. 


An' that night, when I got home, 
W'y, the doctor had to come, 

An’ he gi’ me bitters. 

Guess 'twas ridin’ in the sleigh, 

Er—'twas—sumpthin’; anyway, 
'Twasn’t Gran’ma’s flitters. 


206 


GbUDren'e Dour 


THE OLD BLUE TILE 



OUNG Marguerite, on a cozy seat, 

Sat by the nursery fire. 

“ 'Tis the hour to sew,” thought Madge, 
“ I know, 

But to sew I’ve no desire. 


“ For the seam is long, and the thread goes 
wrong, 

And tangles, and knots, and breaks. 

I do not know why a girl should sew, 

Till she aches, and aches, and aches.” 

So she looked a while at the pretty tile 
Above the nursery grate. 

All blue and white, with a castled height, 
Where a Prince rode out at gate : 

And a pretty scene of a village green, 

(But of course the green was blue,) 

And a May-pole there, and maidens fair, 

All dancing the long day through; 

And, below, a cot, on a tiny plot 
Of the quaint old Holland tile, 

Where a maid in blue the long day through, 
Sewed on, with a patient smile. 

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3La^0 of tbc Xafte 


Young Marguerite, on her cushioned seat, 
With her head laid softly back, 

Looked a long, long while at that painted smile; 
And forgot to sew, alack ! 

But, as still she gazed, she was much amazed 
At the thing that came to pass; 

The Prince in his crown, rode slowly down, 
Through the waving, long blue grass. 

It was all so queer! The Prince drew near 
To the small blue village green, 

And he said: “ I come from my castle home, 
For to seek a comely Queen.” 

Then the girls all danced, and duly glanced 
At the Prince, with winsome smile, 

And he gazed on each, without word of speech, 
And a sober face, the while. 

“ They be fair,” thought he, " but how fair 
they be, 

I may little reck, I ween; 

She must have more grace than a comely face, 
Who would be our castle Queen. 

“ To dance and sing is a pleasant thing, 

But a Queen who shall preside 
With a fitting grace in her household place, 
Must have other gifts beside.” 

208 


GbUOren's Ibour 


Then he bowed adieu to the maidens blue, 
And he turned him unbeguiled, 

Toward the little plot with the lowly cot, 

And the maid who sewed and smiled. 

Quoth he: “ It is she, my busy bee, 

An she will, shall be my bride, 

With her needle keen, and her smile serene, 
And a comely face beside.” 

So they rode away to the castle gay, 

Where the silver bugles rang 

With a welcome din, as they entered in, 

And the drawbridge closed up, bang! 

And Marguerite, from her cozy seat, 

Awoke with a start and screamed : 

“ Why, the poker fell! what a noise! Ah, well, 
I must have slept, and dreamed.” 


209 


%W6 of tbc Zafte 


THE SCHOOLHOUSE OUT OF DOOR 



N the long vacation-time, 

When the books are closed for good 
Little children go to school 
In the meadow and the wood; 


Where the brook goes singing by, 
Where the blossoms scent the air, 
Where the leafy shadows lie, 
Shutting out the noonday glare; 

Where the sweetest songs are heard 
Underneath the arching trees, 
From the mellow-throated bird 
And the soft voice of the breeze. 


In the long vacation-time, 

When the lessons all are o'er, 
What do little children learn 
In the schoolhouse out of door? 


" Listen,” says the busy brook, 

“ I must hurry right along. 

See my banks, how green they look; 
Hear how merry is my song. 

“ Scatter blessings as you go, 

Deeds of kindness every day. 

Like a song your life shall flow, 
Crowned with verdure all the way.” 
210 


CbllDren's fxmr 


“ Take us,” whisper the sweet flowers ; 

“ Breathe the balm from every cup; 
For the fragrance is not ours 
To be meanly hoarded up.” 

“ Serve with gladness,” sing the birds. 

“ Praise the Father, wise and good.” 
'Tis an anthem without words, 

Yet ’tis easy understood. 

“ Be not idle,” says the breeze, 

“ Rise up early, labor late.” 

“ Be a blessing,” say the trees; 

“ Though you only stand and wait.” 

These the sweet and simple ways 
Children learn, and many more, 

In the long vacation-days 

In the schoolhouse out of door. 


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A SONG FOR SUMMER TIME 


C 


OME to summers merry-making, 
She has room enough for all; 
Come, good children, she is waiting; 
Don't you hear her thrushes call ? 


She has parlors big as meadows, 

Airy chambers in the trees; 

You may rest in swinging cradles, 
Rocked and sung to by the breeze. 

Look down from your lattice-window: 

See her carpets, golden-barred, 
Treading softer than Axminster, 

Crossed with vines and daisy-starred. 

Hear the bluebells ring for breakfast. 

There are courses, one, two, three,— 
Cherries, berries, juicy apples, 

Falling softly from the tree. 

Hark ! the breeze will shake the branches. 

Quick, my boy, hold up your cap; 

Sit you down, my little maiden; 

Let them tumble in your lap. 

Here's a feast! and when it's over, 

Rest a while, then run and play; 

Wade the brook and sip the clover, 

Hide you in the new-mown hay. 

212 


Children's Ibour 


Climb the hill to see the sunset; 

“ Bedtime now,” the bluebirds say. 

“ Good-night, children,” calls the summer; 
“ You shall come another day.” 


BYLO LAND 


M 


OW many miles to Bylo land ? 
Bylo, bylo, bye, 

Wink-a-ty blink-a-ty Bylo land, 
Holding a finger of mother’s hand, 
Oh, she knows the way to Bylo land, 
Bylo, bylo, bye. 


Which is the way to Bylo town ? 

Bylo, bylo, bye. 

Rock-a-by, rock-a-by, up and down, 

In a blanket warm and a wee nightgown, 
Oh, that is the way to Bylo town, 

Bylo, bylo, bye. 


What do they see in Bylo night ? 

Bylo, bylo, bye. 

Oh, the little lambs, so soft and white, 
They see them folded warm and tight, 
And they sleep and sleep till morning light, 
Bylo, bylo, bye. 


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3La^5 ot tbe Xafce 


THE LESSON OF THE PEACH-TREE 

H PEACH-TREE held up her bright blos¬ 
soms 

To welcome the warm sun of May, 

And the children put flowers in their bosoms 
And danced ’round her all the long day. 

But the wind came at last and bereft her,— 

Her flowers flew away on the breeze. 

Then away ran the children, and left her 
The saddest of little green trees. 

“ Grieve not,” said the wind, “ that I found you. 

Be patient, and hopeful, and gay; 

For the children again shall dance round you. 
September is better than May.” 

So she hoped, and the sun sent down sweetness. 

She watched for the rain and dew; 

While onward to perfect completeness 
The fruit on her green branches grew. 


She waited and hoped, and thereafter 
She stood a fair wonder to see; 

And the children, with shouts and with laughter, 
Ran back to the little green tree. 

214 


Children's Ibour 


Then she whispered, “ Ah, yes. I remember 
The words the wind whispered in May; 
And this must be lovely September, 

When peaches are given away. 

“ So I’ll throw them all down to the children, 
With downy pink faces upturned. 

Come hither, my rosy-cheeked children, 

I’ll teach you the lesson I’ve learned. 

“ Be hopeful, and brave, and believing ; 

Be patient, and never complain ; 

For all that is worth the receiving, 

Is worth the long waiting to gain.” 

So short is the lesson she teaches; 

Yet those who receive it will see 
'Twill be better than all the sweet peaches 
That grew on the little green tree. 


215 


3La^s ot tbc ftafce 


THE WONDERFUL MOTHER 


H WINTER came, long, long ago, 

When southern sunshine, pale as death, 
Seemed frozen by the north wind's 
breath,— 

A bitter time of ice and snow ; 

And cattle froze in field and fold; 

Fleet horses fell, and travelers 
Died in their thickly muffled furs, 

Pierced by the arrow of the cold. 

That cruel time an orphan boy, 

Through cold and hunger, up and down 
The streets of a Lothringen town 
Went seeking shelter and employ. 

Nearing the prince's palace there, 

At dusk into the stalls he crept, 

Where, in an iron-barred cage was kept 
The prince’s pet, a surly bear. 

Groping his way through shadows deep, 

The creature’s bed of straw he feels ; 
Between the wide-set bars he steals, 

And wearily lies down to sleep. 

Thankful, he breathes his little prayer, 

Piles over him the fresh-thrown straw, 

Feels, through the dark, a warm, soft paw, 
And tenderly the mother bear 
Draws the poor foundling to her breast, 

216 


Children's Thouc 


Where, folded close the livelong night, 

In slumber warm and soft and light 
The little orphan lies at rest. 

He steals away by dawning light, 

And wanders forth to seek his bread ; 
But gladly to his warm, soft bed 
He comes again, night after night. 

The story strange is noised about; 

And, coming to the prince’s ears, 

He scarce can credit what he hears, 

But calls the lad to solve the doubt. 

“ And were you not,” he said, “ afraid 
To sleep beside my surly bear ?.” 

“ No, sire, for I had said my prayer; 

No harm can come when one has prayed.” 


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Xa£5 of tbe Xafce 


THE SEVEN TREES 


^^HE children begged for a story, 
LL “ J ust one more story, please! 
As under the gnarled old apple 
They gathered about my knees, 
While Saturday’s sun was setting 
Behind the orchard trees. 


So I said: “ I’ll tell a story 
And a riddle both in one, 

About trees with bending branches 
Like those against the sun, 

And you shall tell me the meaning 
When the little tale is done. 


“ A king had a lovely garden, 

Wherein stood seven trees, 

All laden with rosy apples 
More beautiful than these, 

And so lowly bent the branches, 

You might pluck the fruit with ease. 

“Now this kind king called the children, 
And he said: * Come, gather free 
From six trees the rosy apples, 

But save the seventh tree. 

If you love me, little children, 

You will keep that one for me/ 

218 


Children's ibour 


“ Were the children good and grateful 
To the king who loved them so ? 

I must not tell you the answer, 

But you yourselves shall show ; 

And the meaning of the story 
You may tell me, if you know." 

Said the children: “ We have gathered, 
In our six days’ work and play, 

All the six trees’ rosy apples; 

And the King we will obey. 

The seventh tree is the Sabbath; 

We will keep the Sabbath day." 


219 


lags of tbe Xafce 


THE POINT OF VIEW 

From the German 

B SPARROW, swinging on a branch, 
Once caught a passing fly. 

“ Oh, let me live ! ” the insect prayed, 
With trembling, piteous cry. 

" No,” said the sparrow, " you must fall, 
For I am large and you are small.” 

The bird had scarce begun his feast 
Before a hawk came by. 

The game was caught. " Pray let me live! ” 
Was now the sparrow’s cry. 

“ No,” said the captor, “ you must fall, 

For I am large and you are small.” 

An eagle saw the rogue, and swooped 
Upon him from on high. 

“ Pray let me live ! Why would you kill 
So small a bird as I ? ” 

“ Oh,” said the eagle, “ you must fall, 

For I am large and you are small.” 

But while he ate the hunter came; 

He let his arrow fly. 

“ Tyrant! ” the eagle shrieked/' you have 
No right to make me die ! ” 

" Ah ! ” said the hunter, " you must fall, 
For I am large and you are small.” 


220 


CbtlDren '0 Ibour 


TEN O’ THE CAT-TAILS 


(3 


IVE Jack ten o’ the cat-tails ! ” 
Such was the rule of the ship; 
It was either take heed 
To the law of the Mede, 

Or else it was take the whip. 


Trice him up to the rigging, 
Fasten him foot and hand, 
His bare back blue 
With a strange tattoo,— 

The flag of his native land. 


The eye of the Captain caught it; 

For once was the lad in luck; 

“ What’s that on your back ? ” 

“The flag, sir,” says Jack, 

“ The flag that never was struck.” 

“ Then it shan’t be struck on my ship! ” 
And he turned him with a frown, 

And a wave toward Jack 
With the tattooed back, 

And a short, sharp, “ Cut him down! ” 


221 


lags ot tbe Xafte 


THE LILY’S LESSON 

From the German 



LOVELY lily of the field, 

O lily, speak to me. 

Who bids thee stand, in all the land 
The fairest flower to see ? 


Thy white robe shines with gold-dust rare, 
Like sunlight sprinkled fine. 

King Solomon had naught so fair, 

O lovely lily mine. 

'Twas God who brought thee forth to sight. 

How does He show His care ? 

Do little angels come by night 
To deck thee fresh and fair? 


And do they wash thy dress in dew, 

And dry it in the wind, 

And bleach in moonlight, through and 
through, 

Those angels, good and kind ? 

O lovely lily of the field, 

I hear thee speak to me: 

“ Dear child, take heed ; I will indeed 
Thy little teacher be. 

“ I question not, I only trust. 

That kind and gentle Power 
That raised me first from out the dust, 
Will keep the little flower.” 

222 


GbilOren's Ibout 


THE ORIOLE’S REPLY 

By Amelia H. Smuller 




EAR little bird, pray tell me why 
In yonder elm-tree, swaying high, 
So far away from all the rest 
Of tiny birds you build your nest. 


Red robin in the apple crotch 

Builds low, where I can peep and watch ; 

And little sparrows in the grass, 

Twitter “ Good-morning,” as I pass. 


You have no richer nest than they 
Who live in a more humble way. 
Then why, dear birdie, tell me why 
You always build your nest so high. 

Is it because you're gaily dressed, 

In shining coat and orange vest, 
And sing a song so sweet and clear 
That everybody stops to hear ? 


Oh, are you really proud and vain, 
My pretty bird, that you disdain 
A lower place ? have you no fear 
For little ones when storms are near ? 
223 


Xags of tbc Xafce 


There’s One, my child, of whom I’ve heard, 
Who watches over every bird, 

He lives above the sky, you know, 

And tells the storms which way to go. 

And that is just the reason why 
I always build my nest so high. 

It is because I love to be 

Near Him who takes such care of me. 


A MOTHER SONG 

M OW many drops in the ocean lie ? 

How many sands are on the shore ? 
How many stars are in the sky? 

So many thoughts for the babe she bore 
Hath mother’s heart, and more, and more. 
Over the ocean by and by 
A bonny bark will sail alone; 

Yet purer, brighter far, on high, 

Than any star that ever shone, 

Thy mother’s love shall beam, and be 
Thy guiding star across the sea: 

A line of light along the wave, 

A silver ray, to seek and save, 

Till calm, and storm, and peril past, 

The shining shore is won at last. 

224 


GbUDren's IDouc 


m 


THANKSGIVING DAY 

E call to mind Thanksgiving Day 
The long year that has passed away, 
The happy year of work and play ; 
Of busy school days flying fast, 

Of holidays too quickly past, 

Of winter turning into spring, 

That made the whole world laugh and sing, 
And of the long bright summer hours, 

That filled our hands with fruits and flowers. 
We hear once more the summer breeze 
That whispered through the leafy trees ; 

We climb the mountains wild and free, 

We feel the cool bath of the sea; 

And as we count these pleasures o’er, 

Our hearts are thankful more and more. 


How shall we show our gratitude ? 

By giving gifts and doing good; 
Remembering to save a share 
For those who need our thoughtful care. 
So, through the good that we shall do, 
May other hearts be thankful too. 

And somewhere, on a leafless tree, 
Where we can all look out and see, 
We’ll tie a golden sheaf of wheat, 

And all the birds will come and eat. 

So each and all, in their own way, 

Shall have a glad Thanksgiving Day. 
225 


Xa^s of tbe Xafce 


CHRISTMAS CAROL 


H ARK! the bells are ringing; 

See! the bells are swinging. 

Merry Christmas bells 
Tell of happy meeting, 

Tell of gift and greeting, 

While our Christmas carol still the chorus swells. 


This the bells are telling, 

By their fall and swelling, 

Blessed Christmas bells ! 

Telling us the story 
How the Lord of glory 

Leaves His home in Heaven, here a stranger dwells. 

Hear! the bells are calling, 

By their rise and falling, 

Holy Christmas bells! 

Call us to adore Him, 

Bending low before Him, 

While our Christmas carol true devotion tells. 

Loud the bells are ringing, 

Sweet the children singing, 

Answer them again ; 

While the angels o'er us, 

Join the Christmas chorus, 
u Glory be to God ! and peace, good-will to men !" 
226 


CbUDren’s Ibouc 


m 


CHRISTMAS CAROL 

HY did midnight Heavens glow 
With strange glory long ago? 

Why did shepherds leave the sheep 
They had waked all night to keep ? 

Why did wise men walk so far, 

Following that wondrous star ? 

Why did angels, bright and fair, 

Fill with songs the listening air ? 


Every little child can tell 
Why the wonders that befell; 

For, on that first Christmas morn, 
Christ a little child was born, 

Born that childhood might have part 
Ever in the Christ-child’s heart; 

Born that age, all sin-defiled, 

Might become a little child. 

Come then, children, sing to-day; 
Angel voices lead the lay; 

Sing it o'er and o'er again — 

" Peace on earth, good-will to men! ” 


22 7 


Xags of tbe Xake 


MORNING SONG 

From the German 


m 


AKE up, dear little child of mine, 
The morning sun begins to shine, 
And runs across the sky to say, 

“ Good little children, it is day.” 

Oh, welcome, welcome, lovely light, 

That drives away the dreary night; 

Shine down, and make our hearts as gay 
And bright as sunshine all the day. 


EVENING SONG 



LEEP, my baby, sweetly sleep ; 
God the Father thee will keep; 
Quickly now thy eyelids close, 
Softly, peacefully repose. 


All without, in winds of night, 
Sway the lilies, tall and white ; 
Far above thee, to and fro, 
Move the angels white as snow. 


Come, ye angels, bright and blest, 
Soothe my little one to rest; 

Sway his heart, and move his mind, 
As the lilies in the wind. 

228 


GbUfcren'0 ibour 


Sleep, my baby, sweetly sleep ; 
God the Father thee will keep ; 
For His angel guards shall spread 
Shelt’ring wings above thy bed. 


SISTER’S LULLABY 

From the German 



LEEP, little brother dear, 
Sleep, love, and do not fear, 
Sister is watching near 
Close by thy cradle here. 
Bye, lullaby. 


Dear eyes, you must not weep, 
Bright eyes, you must not peep; 
Sleep, baby brother, sleep, 

Good angels guard will keep, 
Bye, lullaby. 

Softly and safely lie ; 

Not e'en a tiny fly 
Dares to come buzzing by; 
Sister is watching nigh. 

Bye, lullaby. 


There, close the eyelids tight, 
Dream all things fair and bright, 
Sleep safe till morning light; 
Dear baby boy, good-night! 

Bye, lullaby. 

229 


Xa£6 ot tbe Xake 


LITTLE TEMPLES 



ESUS, can a child like me 
Thine own living temple be ? 


Yes, Thy Spirit day by day 
In my heart will deign to stay. 


Then that heart must ever be 
A fit dwelling-place for Thee. 


Naughty tempers, thoughts of sin, 
These things must not enter in. 

But a temple is a place 

Built for constant prayer and praise, 


And the teaching of Thy word; 

Am I such a temple, Lord ? 

Yes, if all I do and say, 

In my work and in my play, 

Shall be gentle, true, and right, 
Pleasing in Thy holy sight. 

Help me, Lord, for I am weak, 

Make me hear when Thou dost speak. 
230 


Children's Ibour 


Cleanse my heart from every sin ; 
Make me beautiful within. 

Then shall those about me see 
That the Saviour dwells in me. 


CHILDREN’S FIRST COMMUNION 



ESUS, Thou hast spoken, 
Help our hearts to heed; 
May Thy body broken 
Be our bread indeed. 


Coming to Thy table 
At Thy loving word, 

Teach us, and enable ; 

Help our weakness, Lord. 

Saviour, Thou hast taught us 
To remember Thee; 

Thou, whose blood has bought us, 
Shed on Calvary. 

Poured, as wine most precious, 
Freely, for our sake; 

Cleanse us, and refresh us, 

As the cup we take. 

So Thy love confessing, 

Till Thou come again, 

Fill us with Thy blessing 
Evermore, Amen. 

231 


„1 


Xa^s of the Xake 

THE WHITE FLOWER 

H N angel came down at the evening hour, 
She held in her hand a fair white flower; 
Where the little children lay in bed, 

She passed, and stroked each silken head. 

“ The day is over my little one, 

Canst tell me any good thing thou’st done ? ” 

“ I tried to be patient," says one. She smiled, 
And said: “ I bless thee, my little child." 

“ I forgave a wrong,” another said; 

And she left a blessing on his head. 

“ I gave, without grudging, all my store." 

“ I bless thee, my child," she said once more. 

She paused at a little lowly bed. 

“ And what hast thou done, my child ? " she said. 
“ Oh, I have done nothing, all the day, 

For I was so happy in my play. 

“ The sun was bright and the flowers were sweet, 
The grass was like velvet to my feet. 

The birds, they sang such a pretty song ! 

I listened to hear them all day long. 

“ And now it is dark, the day is done, 

And I have done no good thing, not one." 

But the angel smiled : “ Thou, too, art blest; ” 
And she laid the white flower on his breast. 

232 
























































































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